In front of the little wooden
altar at home.
His forehead touched the
board of the altar.
Silently, he prayed as usual.
The scene hit me with wonder
and rage.
An evil seed bred in my mind.
‘Why do you believe in
something you cannot even prove?’
‘Prayers are the prey of God.’
‘Religion is but a mental
placebo’, I said.
‘They are not if you believe
in them’, said my mother.
I hated myself,
For drifting further away
from my parents.
Down, I fell on my knees,
With my head and palms on the
soil.
Free and peace I felt.
My Tibetan students taught me
how to pray.
Up I raised and saw a
wonderful picture.
Tiny scraps of papers,
Written with sacred text in
various colors,
Flew, flickered, and dressed
the valley up like a pallet.
‘Om Mani Padme Hum.’
I repeated after them the
ancient incarnation,
As we threw the sacred papers
in the air.
They lit a small fire with
herb,
On a pile of rubble stones,
Stones collected by pilgrims
of decades.
Barley wine was poured into
the flame that soared up.
A stick stuck in the pile of
stones,
And hang banners written with
incarnation.
‘Each time the banners
flutter,
The incarnation is repeated’,
they said.
This time I believe them.
I bought my father a prayer
wheel,
A cylindrical on a spindle
made from metal.
Each time I twirled the
wheel,
I heard the old Tibetans’
muted prayer.
When the last ray of sun
retreated in dusk,
They started praying,
In dim cold night on the
plateau,
They knelled down,
Stretched their hands
forward,
Until they laid face,
Hugging the earth fully.
I sat in meditation with the
prayer wheel in hand.
I felt no joy but horror.
One day I’d die.
My fear couldn’t subside,
Baffled souls under husks,
Trapped in samsara.
My room turned sombre at
twilight.
I went out for my usual
evening walk,
Astound at the rosy sky,
I carved it in my mind and
soul,
For its transiency.
I followed the straight
street paths,
Which stretched and twined into
a circle.
As I prayed and walked home,
I ended at the place where it
had begun.
By Amy LIU
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