Acta, non verba

The dream you bore in mind: to Thailand 

you trekked.

Rugged surfaces were gnawing away your 

feet, your respect,

Amid the heat.

You beseeched me “to wait,” and so I did

Bhante, they called you, then, in reverence

I was unable to imitate or utter.         

I awaited the dusks and dawns in despair, 

distress,          

Dreading my fate.                              

But do you miss the shade I offered?

Even as the bloodshed ended,

I stood alone, unattended, 

Obeying your command simply “to wait.”

Half a decade passed, before you returned 

from the shrine.

Seeing you in your saffron robe evoked the 

flowers of those vines,

My joy, which crept

Upon the shrubs from the soil to the tips of 

my legs,

Drowning my sobs to the top of my crown,

Bound to intertwine, not knowing soon 

I’d be shrouded by smoke, maligned, like 

the clouded leopards,

My duty to guard.

They once called me home,

Now sacrificed like playing cards:

I placed a heart, you lay down a spade,

the town, concerned with cash, 

a diamond played.

The curse, present in this place, 

to you long-known,

As trees are burned, I now witness alone–

To their tips, 

Smothered by money-driven hands.

My roots dug deep, yearning to make a 

stand

In this patch of my once lush land – our 

land

Now bald. Still, I stand 

Faithful to your command.

Langurs were gone for good; razors 

pushed, yet you rained. 

Hope, upon my lone leaves, the jays called 

home, restrained.

Silhouettes 

Expostulating, we stand, studying the 

strife,

Until you quieted down, for the sake of 

your own life.

Perhaps you and I shall let it be:

Let my trunk be ground through 

humanity’s machinery,

Scarred and smeared, 

Stifled under the burning fires.

Let them fabricate the magic that once was 

ours.

Let me shut my eyes as the dominoes go 

haywire:

The siren blaring, the firs clean cut, 

Nothing, but a snare,

I’m nothing but a pawn,

Helpless, among actions to abhor, to hate,

Obedient to your command, still now

I just wait.

How absurd that I’m left to dwell 

in a grave,

The boy had bad lungs, they say, and could 

not be saved.

Yet the air you breathe, I create;

The creatures you play with, I harbor;

The shade under which you slumber, I 

provide.

Generously, tenderly, selflessly, 

I stand under the stars, each night allayed,

Contemplating, vigilantly, bulletproof 

though disarmed,
I see you grow, as I grew rings, returning 

our land, our magic unharmed.

Perhaps as you ripen, deep to old age,
Perhaps I shall re-arise, 

As a slight gust of wind, to send chills 

down your spine,

As an aureolin daisy growing from this 

nurturing soil,

As a sapling gazing at you from afar.

When you toast to the townspeople,

You’ll rise and you’ll speak the truth:

“Acta, non verba,

I am not a hero; I am merely Bun Saluth.”