Irrelevant to even the Singha, who no longer
Lose their fleshly robes for reading the slabs.
Most still can't, whether local mendicant
Or obscure tourist, who, as much as she parses
Like Jesus, cannot revive its ancient tongue.
But the words still have to be left in these crypts
White in the sun, these endless marble tombs
Where no one dares to peer at the scrolls.
The sacred is only so if untouched by the mind
That can’t hear the harmony from the other room,
For the pure song needs to keep voices separate.
The books turn blue as the Mandalay night descends,
So much beauty there, in the solitude
As if the words continue to pull and accrue
The odours of the hillside, the bells along the town,
The silence of the desolate pilgrims,
As if a new page is turned, by pristine hand.
