There they go, drifting idly by

in the mottled green light of their heaven:

these buddhas of water, knowing nothing but now,

in their last birth before the deep silence.

Bred for their beauty, bland unfinished faces

stay unlined by both sorrow and silent fish-laughter;

here in the blue-tiled bounds of their universe

only the placid prevail.

Streaming minds no longer remember

the cullings of childhood, the hungry mothers’ mouths;

each life long since filtered through trials into patience,

they stay in midwater, in continuous meditation –

each mind with its world a confluence of rivers,

and when, each morning, manna breaks their sky

and faith, rewarded, rises to meet it,

they come, never questioning what lies beyond –

electric lamps, broad leaves, strange huge faces,

and other minds, caught still in the dusty webs of spiders.

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