To town,
from town.
Clay patta,
saffron civara.
Smoothened walking stick,
the companion of the unlonely
alone.
Downhill,
uphill.
Through clouds,
through fog.
Soles worn,
robes tattered.
Wake, rise...
Weary, rest...
This flesh, in truth,
the begging bowl
we each were issued.
I hear the rain, as it plays again
Its old pitta patta song
And often time I find myself
singing right along
But there's no sound when snow comes down
Its song, the sound of silence
And as each flake upon another falls
its silent song is crowned
I feel the charm in a sun that's warm
Its song is light divine
And often time when butterflies swarm
I'll take a sip of sunshine
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