Monks on fire, ablaze like sandalwood.
We wrap them in scented soft white linens,
like clouds in Katmandu.  Since ’51
haven’t seen the sun in Kham and Ando.

Young Tapey, like rains in Dharamsala,
dreams falling through to the dome, to the glow.
In the palm of the hand, little wings stir
air, a drop falls up, like a feather floats

down.  Sound, light, time, tickles, pulses, the monks,
Where do they go after they’ve burned away?

© Carlos Chagall, 2013