How the mythological gods,
Used a compass to draw a perfect circle,
In the night sky, and color it saffron yellow.
How God turns to a student, looking
At his own creation, just like
We are always keen to learn something new,
Knowing we are indebted, to monks,
Priests and imams, to keep us
Abreast of virtue.
How they float powerful words,
What the perennial anatomist sees
As the vibration of countless ear drums,
What the physicist, sees as undulating waves,
While the student at the temple,
Turns to an offering of flowers, refreshed after a sermon.
How flowers make us remember,
On this Poson day, how one day long ago,
Something beautiful, surfaced in serendipity,
Like a breathtaking seashell brought by the ocean,
To a pearl-shaped island.
How some events are meant, to be vehicles of change,
To what lies fossilized, and yet prone to abstraction.
How renunciation is still as noble
As the day, the full moon, came to symbolize,
How the bond between king and monk,
Grew to conquer a tear-shaped terrain.
How in that honorable thread, of religion,
You find timeless virtue.
How some fabrics, are braided,
When human palm, clasps another palm,
To a beautiful tapestry, that will resist ripping,
A fabric, that intimates and needs no needle,
Only a lens, to appraise in human carats,
How we are all stooges of axiology,
How worth turns to worthy, the moment
We become part of the difficult-to-shred
Sewn together, by the human touch.