Dry Zone Re-visitations

The Dry Zone isn't flat.

There are infinite stretches

of green
or gold
or brown
in the seasonality of paddy,
but at the end

a line of trees

and a horizonal hump.

There are rocks
not like Ritigala
not all of them
but of height enough
and from there
where ancient temples keep
their pothgul secrets;
these rocks which I've climbed
and sat on butt-burning seats
of midday lunacy
from there
the universe unraveled
too vast for thought to fill
too small to hold my small-mind
so I set free eyes and thought
and in the blind mindlessness
noticed shrub carrying remnant
of kemmura chant
and the imminent arrival
that will forever banish vacancy.
It took a while
a few centuries in fact;
but the rock cooled
eyes and mind returned
from exile and illumination.
I can die now.