To you not to tell that death happenes

When I saw you at the temple the other day
Your perfect attire, powdered face, light lipstick
And smiles masking welled up eyes halfway
I wanted to tell you to cry- a little, because it’s OK.
I too was listening to the monk
Chanting in our mother tongue
The mother tongue not of our children
But of our mothers we left, and yours just left.
The moth and the flame and the four noble truths and
he said let the flame be. See it properly
We wouldn’t wonder with desire
Instead clearly conscious, so let the flame be
The flame as in my mother, my father, etc
He meant love, hatred, ignorance, etc
Yes, indeed your mother must have been a flame
Like of a soft clay lamp at the feet of a Buddha statue
Not only on Poya but every single day
She had lit you this perfect
The way one light pahanin pahana
But it is true -the dhamma talks
Getting rid of attachment helps
When you sit in the kitchen sipping tea
When tears are about to roll on cheeks
When nobody is around to touch your head
When you think of them, the way they did.


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