Prabuddha XXI*

The rising moon smiles

the royal temple in sila sanctity smiles

the white sands around the bo tree smile

and I smile too.

The bo tree pleases in its loveliness

calms, subdues eye and mind.

The moon is a gilded creation

coaxing out tender leaves 

copper hued,

and when these copper leaves mature

they yield to an amazing green 

music for ears and eyes no less

when leaves sway in the mildest breeze,

a sunshade exquisite

with blue sapphires embedded

to shade and shade

the earth that is mother

that is angel. 

Pure is the dawn.

The morning star in its resplendence

marks pathway for the rising sun .

Deep in the bosom of Himalayan peaks

dressed with forest

covered by snow

shines with the young rays of the sun

just like the truth pure.

Bliss is the truth.

And under the heavenly sunshade

blessed with divine fanning

at the breaking of the dawn

focused on the morning star did I

O Enlightened One!

To comprehend that

which you had comprehended

my gaze upon the Bo tree

in a gaze-giving of gratitude

silenced the mind

by all this splendor

contemplated the wonderment

that was nature’s singular conjuring,

like a painter who is done with his painting

like a connoisseur enraptured by the aesthete

in the painting discovers self,

to hear and respond

to ‘who am I?’

with a mind escaped from thought. 

“Yassa moole nisinnova - sabbari vijayam aka,

patto sabbannutam satta - vande tam bodhipadapam”.

Seated under which

the Teacher vanquished all foes,

attained Enlightenment ,

in remembrance do I venerate.

The body is the Bo tree

mind a clear mirror

required to be frequently wiped

lest dust settles on its countenance.

There never was a Bo tree

never was a mirror

delve deep

and then there never was

anything at all;

but if this was so

where was there dust

to settle upon mirror-face?

A woman in a red batik lungi

a top made of lace

smiles, blinks her eyes twice

issues forth an invite thus.

Crowds

people jostling for better view

on either side of the street

await the Vesak procession.

Whips crack

and she whispers

‘Seeing you after ages,

why didn’t you visit?’

the drums up their tempo

raise the beat of insanity

the davul , hewisi and the thammattama  too

all at once

and in the midst of the peering crowd

a hand finds itself held by hand:

‘When will you come?’

‘Next week.’

The fire boys the fire balls turn

the veddahs garbed in leaves dance

there’s the udekki and the torches

the rising of beat for dancing feet

dance, song and somersaults

the eye cannot but in fire-light shine.

‘Whosoever casts lustful eyes upon a woman

in that moment unites with her in carnal embrace.’

‘We are leaving now,

so don’t you forget…

Cheerio!”

‘The procession passed

Emptiness regained the street.’

‘Your beauty for a long time

was in my thoughts etched,

and that I loved you

I never knew nevertheless.

I will come next week

to see you, somehow.’

Yathà'gàra§ succhanna§
            vuññhi na samativijjhati
Eva§ subhàvita§ citta§
            ràgo na samativijjhati.

Even as rain does not penetrate

a well-thatched house,

so does lust not penetrate

a well-developed mind..

‘Is it good or bad, this journey?’

And yet queries the mind

‘Is it good or bad, this journey?’

*This is the twenty first part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. 

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI , VII, VIII,  IX, X , XI, XII, XIII,XIV, XV, XVI, XVII,  XVIII, XIX and XX can be found in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com.