Buddha as a refugee

He looks stunned as if he were caught
doing something scandalous.
Blood trails down his chest
as he sits surrounded by
the falling limbs of his Bodhi tree.
Was it a fortnight ago he’d invited Mara
for tea, as she stormed through the forest
wounding the small and the easy ?
He wipes the soot from his face, listens
to the screech of explosions

uprooting the sacred forest.
The same sound sweeps the towns
carrying the debris of bodies and boarded up houses.
He stands now, steadying his skeletal body
clothed in a dingy robe, his almsbowl remains empty.

Aye Wollam

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This entry was posted in 2017, creative writing, thoughts and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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