Seeing the Monk Across to the Other Shore
By Phan Tan Hai
Holding his alms bowl, the monk walks on,
his robe stitched from clouds across the sky;
we send him back to the mountain corner—
how many partings in a single life.
Standing, sitting—all for the people,
his chest still aching from blades once struck;
tears flooding the three realms,
Avalokitesvara embodied in his form.
A time he left, burdened with sorrow,
feet weary along both banks of the Ganges;
turning back, he awakened as Minh Trí,
his hair falling like dust along the road.
— For my friend Nguyen Cong Bang,
later a Theravada monk with the Dharma name Minh Tri.
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