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
‘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.
