The cave roof was high enough to tower Over the trees in the forest that had Grown around these medieval refuges. We were two ghosts – wandering in abandoned Land, apparitions from the future. For we were dying. They, languid and still, The buddhas, gazed down at us, their eyes Gentle, free of judgement, seeing […]
Ramya Jirasinghe
I was Siddhartha’s Mother
They carried me into the forest. The sal trees, shaken by our clamour Showered small soft flowers on us. The trees’ slender trunks rose column-like Into the leaves, and everywhere, that scent. He was born on a floor of petals. Later, he will talk about impermanence: Bodies are flowers, fading. Faded, the newborn.