An old age weights upon me immediately
when I come to the falling temple on the long bay,
The only standing house on the west side, though rickety ,
opens his drowsy eyes and stares at me ,
mumbles something inconspicuous that reminds me of a bad dream.
On the small path, full of dirts many decades old, the footprints
of many spirits of the new age cut deep and clear.
Man shudders for the footfall still echoes at night.
The Bodhisattva they once put high and grand lies now
face-up to the burnt roof- it was crimson I remember,
crimson as the inner side of a casket.
In the yard weeds play riotously.
The silent desolation invades the place and builds up
within itself another shrine for another generation of doubters, who,
like the guarding river behind a pile of bricks,
turn quiet as I am quiet too, under a scared moon.
It’s not the first time I come here, nor would it be the last,
The circle of history is destructive, alluring,
pushing us towards the beginning where everything has its end.
In the beginning, I believe, it was the best temple of the nation.
And now ?
The tragedy of a nameless fate falls heavy here, on the fallen god.