Made of fire,
You illuminate the world
With your passionate light,
And the rhythm of drums keeps the monks awake.
Silence lies heavy on their shoulders
As they do their best to tame their instincts
And clarify their mind.
Wisdom runs red
As the river flows far away from here,
And the rainforest
Attracts strange and dangerous dreams.
At a turntable pace,
Rolling like a deck of cards,
Burning like a pack of incense sticks.
Wild winds, long days of cold in a distant part of the world,
The impulse of self-protection
Which is written in the stars,
Long nights of meditation and self-limitation,
Red flags, drums and chants…
Long nights of mysterious fires,
And a light yet intense
Scent of burning incense —
Days off work
But not off the spiritual destination.