A thousand times I wet my head
with water from the holy rivers.
My silken robes ply softly
folds of purity tucked in my body.
With steady hands I draw
your sacred marks of graveyard ash.
The lamp glows calm
A golden drop, the conscious' shine
Your fragrance swells and overflows
as my breathing slows of its own will.
I chant the chants with utmost care
wincing at every word that comes imperfect.
The water flows unburdened
nectar it is, nectar flows.
And yet my Father...
Sans effort that yellow flower
has reached your feet already.