Archive for September 2007

Prayer for Peace

September 29, 2007

Buddhist Prayer for Peace

May those frightened cease to be afraid,
and may those bound be free.

May the powerless find power,

and may people think of befriending one another.

May those who find themselves in trackless, fearful wildernesses –

the children, the aged, the unprotected –

be guarded by beneficent celestials,

and may they swiftly attain Buddhahood.

Shinto Prayer for Peace

Although the people living across the ocean surrounding us,
I believe, are all our brothers and sisters,

why are there constant troubles in this world?

Why do winds and waves rise in the ocean surrounding us?

I only earnestly wish
that the wind will
soon puff away
all the clouds which are hanging

over the tops of the mountains.


A Place called Home

September 28, 2007

I long to be home,
where the land,
is covered with green trees,
where the mountaintops
are decked with snows,
where cold wind
that flutter the prayer flags,
blows on the face,
where people sit
around fireplaces,
with warm smiles
and sparkling eyes,
joys spreading around
like the eagle’s wings.

I long to be home,
where the rivers are clean and clear,
where the sky’s blue and vast,
where the air’s cool and fresh.

I long to be home,
listening to silence,
wanting nothing,
feeling complete.

Four Hundred and Ninety Five

September 27, 2007

He screamed, sending shivers through the village.

‘Not again,’ moaned a man, shaking his head as he made his way toward the crowd.

‘Hold him!’ He shouted, ‘hold him tight!’

The man continued to scream, occasionally gasped for air, kicking his feet in the air.

‘Stop!’ shouted a man with thin voice.

The man stopped and looked around, confused and terrified. He wiped off saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand, soiled and cracked.

‘Tie him up,’ suggested a voice, booming and loud.

‘What for?’ said an old man, balancing on a rough walking stick.

‘What for?’ boomed the man with voice, ‘he’ll start all over again’

‘Let him scream…let him be,’ the old man said.

‘Scream… I can tolerate. What about our crops? What about our children? Have you already forgotten?’ said the man of booming voice, ‘next time, it could be you…or any one of us.’

‘But he’s improved…’ implored the old man.

‘Improved?’ said another, ‘you call this improvement? Just look at him for Lord’s sake. He’s crazy, mad, gone! Tie him up’

The man just looked at the crowd, stabbing looks of hatred and of pity at him. He’s horrified. He did not protest as he was tied to a walnut tree, leafless and dying. He looked into the eyes of the people around him.

He looked at the distant horizon and muttered, ‘four hundred and ninety five…’ without even knowing why.

He saw him, he saw him clearly now. He saw his kind wrinkled face, his warm smile, his maroon robe. He could almost hear his soothing voice.

He looked up into the sky, clear and blue, and sobbed silently.

Of Lost Words and Dark Shadows

September 27, 2007

I saw the muse, my muse, today. She was not even looking, let alone smile at me. Like dream, she slipped away into the carcass of my imagination.

It saddened me. I do not mind.

I saw her, faint and fading like shadows into the night. Pale and useless, I just stared into oblivion, a chore I’m exploited to perform over and over again.

Why have you forsaken me? I asked, almost like some son of a god. Yet, I’m not his son. Not even a distant relative. I do not know him. He does not know me. I’m stranger to my maker, if I’m deemed to believe. I do not believe.

Yet, there was my muse, slithering into my dreams, languishing into my sensibility, feasting upon my misery. I feel lost. I must be lost.

Wordless, I continue staring into vastness, vastness of possibility, of promises, of dreams, of hope…of doom.

I stared after her, the muse, my muse, disappearing into vastness, empty and ruined.

I wait. I’ll wait. What more could I do?

Oh, Muse! Where art thou?

September 25, 2007

Umm…I’m lazy.

Just 7 posts last month?

Damn! What happened?

What’s wrong with this blog? What’s wrong with me? Am I already out of ideas?

Yet, I read all the blogs that link from my page. I read KC’s Insight. I read Ugyen’s Visit Bhutan 2008. I read Matt’s Lost Boy. I read Seige’s Coffee Perker. I read Pat’s Splog. I read them all – to the point that I forget to read or update my own blog…hehe…

Ummm…must I do something. I must. I should. I might…Maybe…

Oh, musey muse…grant me the power of words and of sentences and of paragraphs…

Four Hundred and Ninety Nine

September 24, 2007

I see him, I can see him clearly now, I can see him limping through thick foliage, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, writhing in pain, a price he must pay for what he did ages ago. He looks around for any hint of life (or death for that matter). The wind howls, rustling the leaves, the dead and dried ones falling on the hard ground that he walks.

He looks around. He waits. For what, he doesn’t know. Yet something tells him he was here before and many times before that.

‘Four hundred and ninety nine…’ he mutters, almost subconsciously, as he wipes off sweat from his face.

He sits on a slab of rock and studies the wound on his leg, puss and blood caked over the wound. He waves his hand to keep off flies and scratches the wound.

‘What happened?’He asked himself, ‘Where am I?’ and immediately forgets the question.

A lone man in the vast forest, he has nowhere to go.

He hears a faint hum, then tinkling of drums and bells – remote and familiar. He does not move. He thinks, yet he soon forgets what he hears or what he thinks. Strange, he thinks and smiles faintly.

The sky’s overcast with dark clouds. He looks up. Looks like rain, he thinks.

Flashes of lightning across the sky send him shivering behind a tree. Thunder rolls deep into the forest. Large drops of rain fall on the ground, bringing down twigs and leaves.

He shivers.

What he sees horrify him.

Terrified and lost, he screams.

What are we?

September 14, 2007

I see him, I see an old man, lifetime of suffering hidden between ripples of wrinkles. He has learnt to shrug them off with smiles, ages of pain etched vividly across deep furrows on his forehead.

He lacks strength. Life would soon fail him. He has no desire to die. He only wish to live, forever…

He looks at a baby being born. He looks at him waiting in oblivion, a product of human desire, of pleasure, of greed, of pride, of suffering…

‘What are we?’ He asks himself and waits for an answer.

I wait with him.