The monsoon rains plummet to the ground
Instantly large silent pools fill the grass
Silently, mindfully, Ven Aggacitta carefully
Picks his way amongst the puddles
His spare figure shrouded in cinnamon robes
His protection a cinnamon umbrella held high
Vipassana meditation in motion
He goes on his way, absent of sound
Feet in sandals attempting to stay dry
Below me multi-coloured umbrellas
Weave to and fro ‘cross the Courtyard
Their bearers locked in silence
Poised not to speak, I can see their tension,
Westerners resting uneasy with their vows
Under dark umbrellas the business men from
Carry on their purposeful conversation
In hurried, urgent, soft Hindi cadence
Their silence reserved only for meditation
Voices lightly drifting on the rain
The roses move silently, greeting the wind
A horse’s bell rings the call to mindfulness
Singular, solitary, as the sun comes out again
And Saraswati, dancing eternally in bronze
Shines and glimmers, knowledge in hand
The Temple roof invites the sky’s caress
Breathing in, I breathe in, but instead of emptiness
Often it’s just the Watcher that I find.
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