‘Whatever has the nature of arising has the nature of ceasing’  from the ‘Kimsuka Sutta’ of Gautama Buddha 500 B.C approx.

Now and again, glimpses of the Irrawaddy river
peek through the palm trees,
the light on the water a magnet for heroic notions
of grace and truth.

Men and women crouch in the paddies,
their flattish, conical bamboo hats swaying like sampans,
the timeless repose of centuries,
the ceaseless clamour and swaddling of new-born,
a now-broken, now-forgiven tryst.

It is not the sowing of seed that congeals the throat,
nor the heavy weight of night, now upon me,
as I find solace in the silvery, translucent glow
of Bodhigon.

What prevails is the desire to give, to reach out,
to unfurl words of satin and drown in mystery.

Ancient river, flow through me,
let your iridescence garnish me with pearls
and reveal to me, ultimately,
the silent song of angels and vibration of surrender.