Memory is a bird
migrating
between my heart and the void
migrating
between my heart and the void
Setting at Savatthi. Then, in the morning, the bhikkhuni Sisupacala dressed... she sat down at the foot of a tree for the day's abiding.
When night draws on, remembering keeps me wakeful
And hinders my rest with grief upon grief returning
For Ṣakhr. What a man was he on the day of battle,
When, snatching their chance, they swiftly exchange the spear-thrusts!
My island lies o'er the ocean;
Like a wreath of flowers upon the sea;
A man. Borne riddle in places.
This curvature of space. All that needs to fill,
Only a stroke. Working to undo errant stitches
More than a needle thread. A loom with which to.