Summary
The poem"Prajapati Gautami" from the epic “Amriteya Buddha”
portrays the deep sorrow, devotion, and philosophical reflection of Prajapati
Gautami, Siddhartha's aunt and foster mother, as she confronts her separation from
him after his renunciation. The poem explores her inner turmoil, emotional
depth, and unwavering love for Siddhartha, despite the spiritual distance that
now separates them.
She reveres the vast universe—addressing the skies, stars, sun, moon, and the forces of nature, praying for Siddhartha's protection and expressing her hope that nature will care for him in her absence. Gautami offers her love, her life, and her soul to these forces, trusting them to safeguard her "life’s treasure"—Siddhartha.
The Poem
It was known.
To the affectionate Prajapati,
That in the desolate, untamed forest of Kajangal,
Amidst the dense thickets of vetiver, khus, bamboo groves,
And the fiery angarak trees,
He sat—alone, in deep meditation.
Her son, soft as a lotus petal,
The tender Prince Siddhartha.
The surge of motherly love was overwhelming,
Day and night, not a moment passed in peace.
Life was like a rudderless boat, battered and torn,
Whipped by storms, directionless, lost,
Ravaged by suffering, shaken, distressed.
One thought, one focus:
How to reclaim
The treasure of life,
Her soul.
He.
Had left Kapilavastu,
Torn within, filled with sorrow and despair,
Weary from the path,
Crossing the plateaus, arriving,
In the southeast.
Amidst the blue hills of the Anga region.
There, beneath
Arjuna, bakul, pakar, banyan, reeds, mango,
In the dusky thickets of the Khidira forest.
Flowed a nameless river,
Fed by streams,
Between the sparse, impassable mountains.
She saw.
Amidst the clusters of bamboo,
Shrouded by the dense green shadows of the Khidira trees,
In that secluded, deep grove,
He sat—absorbed in radiant meditation.
Would the waterfalls tumble down,
Or would the heavy clouds burst forth in rain?
Her eyes swelled with the surging tide,
A flood of tears rising, brimming.
Her anguished heart let out a cry.
She trembled, like leaves caught in a storm,
Losing control over her body and mind.
This was he.
The prince of her dreams,
The one entangled in the thorny wilderness.
He, who once slept upon her heartbeat, soft as a flower,
Whom she lulled to sleep, not with lullabies,
But with the gentle taps of kisses.
In the mirror of her eyes, she showed him
His playful, laughing reflection.
This.
He.
The very ache of her soul.
Ah! The cruel play of fate,
That walked not upon the earth,
But upon her throbbing, lotus-like heart.
She would gaze at him, her mind entranced, spellbound,
Drawn into the magic of his smiling charm.
Within her, love stirred painfully,
Her every breath proclaiming,
"You are my son, I am your mother."
All the joys and wonders of the world,
So small, so insignificant,
Seemed to vanish into the folds of her embrace.
Watching him now,
Motionless, still, detached, focused.
Prajapati's consciousness shattered,
Fragmented into pieces, all at once.
Ah! What unparalleled, wondrous sight!
A mother, yet she could not contain her heart.
She began to weep, helplessly.
"Siddhartha! My life’s treasure!
Come, rise—come. Let us return home.
Do not delay any longer!
Since you left,
The paths you once walked have been forsaken.
The cows turn their heads,
Looking for you, crying out in distress.
At the sound of footsteps, the horses in the stable neigh,
Restless with sorrow for that missing day,
Impatient to fill the void.
When evening falls, and the dusky shades
Descend upon the treetops,
If any rider leaves the house on some task,
The people of the city lift their anxious, questioning eyes,
Worrying—
Has he, too, like the Prince, departed,
Without a word,
Leaving behind nothing but silence?
Has some cruel, sudden calamity
Burned the green fields?
The trees and shrubs stand still,
The forests and gardens seem painted,
Struck by the fierce storm,
They remain, dazed and broken. Their swaying branches,
As if caught in waves of memory, beckon,
Waving their arms in sorrowful plea.
The lotus pond remains,
The same well,
The vibrant hundred-petaled lotuses bloom as before.
But the water no longer ripples with life.
No breeze stirs their delicate limbs.
No soft, languid petals sway,
No invitation from the water lilies.
The wind, once fragrant and full of delight,
Has grown still, subdued.
Bound by the passage of time,
Life continues in a mechanical trance.
Even the swans, once playful in the pond,
No longer flap their wings.
Their eyelids remain closed."
With their beaks tucked under their wings,
The swans, lost in thought, drift aimlessly.
Even now, if by chance,
Spring strays and loses its way,
Knocking at the garden’s gates, it returns,
Neglected and forlorn.
Not a single flower peeks out
From the stems and branches, laughing,
To greet it with honor.
The trees bend under the weight of the blossoms,
But the cuckoo, sitting among the mango branches,
Does not fill the air with sweet song. Instead,
Restless from the fragrance,
It lets out a piercing, heart-wrenching cry.
For whom does this spring cup overflow,
Why do the branches of the flame tree, heavy with blossoms, bow
low?
Why is the veil of both the east and west soaked with tears?
In the houses, the lamps burn—
But their light is dim and pale.
They serve merely to mark the hours of the night’s journey.
The marble and crystal columns, once joyous and gleaming,
Now stand as silent question marks,
As if they, too, await an answer—day and night,
Unyielding in their patient vigil.
The leaves gaze through the open windows,
The shutters ajar.
Eager, impatient, they thirst for his return.
Inside the closed doors,
A deep sadness fills the air, breathing cold sighs.
In some home,
A newborn child arrives,
Carrying with him the weight of many questions.
At once, hearts are filled with silent doubt:
Will he grow up here in this home,
Or will he too, like Siddhartha,
Leave without a word to become an ascetic?
When a father seeks the hand of a young maiden in marriage,
Astrologers are no longer consulted.
Instead, the father, restless, anxiously asks—
Will this union endure for life?
Or will it suffer the anguish of sudden separation?
A newlywed bride’s husband steps outside,
And the anxious young woman,
Her eyes brimming with tears of fear,
Looks up at the blue sky.
Is it the full moon of Ashadha,
Shining bright and washed in milk-white light?
Has the malignant gaze of a star fallen
Upon the flower of her good fortune?
The gleaming veil of moonlight,
Which once spread joy over the blossoming groves,
Now rains down hail,
Seeming to cast a shroud over her hopes.
She, distraught, blocks her husband’s path,
Begging tearfully,
"Do not go, my love.
Tonight, too, the full moon is inauspicious.
In this humble, outstretched veil,
What if a burning comet falls,
And scorches the date with curses?
No longer does any day, marked by the city’s rituals,
Remain auspicious.
All eyes, filled with questions,
Turn upward.
Is it the full moon of Ashadha again?
In every heart, one pervasive fear stirs.
How shall life go on,
How shall the home remain as it once was?
May no father or mother bear the pain of losing a son.
May no newborn child
Grow up without a father’s love,
Cradled in a mother’s tearful arms.
May no young maiden’s heart
Be filled with silent, endless sorrow,
Her days and nights burdened with unspoken grief.
May no flame of longing
Burn within her veil,
Silent and alone, unceasing.
Your absence alone
Has filled Kapilavastu with unbearable sorrow."
The silent palace walls no longer hum
With the joy they once knew.
Destiny, like a heavy breath,
Etches the long separation and sorrow in tears.
The streets too—
In the day, they burn with the sun’s heat,
At night, pierced by the thorns of stars, they writhe in agony,
For once, your footprints were marked upon them,
Their hearts trembled, proud with the warmth of your touch.
They still hope—
That the doors of your chamber
Will open slowly once again,
That your lotus-like feet
Will cool the earth with their gentle touch.
No more do they celebrate the dreams of festivals.
The blessings are silent, the farmers bowed and desolate.
Now, they work like machines,
Carrying out their tasks without joy.
The forest paths do not bloom,
Fields no longer burst with color,
Nor do pairs of oxen walk together in harmony.
No one speaks,
Yet each heart reads the other’s silence.
This single wound, this shared grief,
Has brought them closer.
Words are unnecessary,
For their eyes say everything—
Revealing what lies deep within.
It feels as though they all share one soul,
Dwelling in countless forms.
Though outwardly they seem still,
Inside, they are restless with sorrow.
The tear-filled eyes of one find their answer
In the silent suffering of another.
Separated in their homes,
They all endure the same torment.
Bound by the web of fate,
They stand helpless, heads bowed, frozen by grief.
Night—thick with sadness,
Heavy with unspeakable pain—
Descends upon the palaces,
Restless, sighing with each turn,
Its wounds dripping with starlit tears.
Where is the dawn, where is the night?
Where is twilight, where the moonlight?
In the desolate, barren desert of their hearts,
The mad sorrow roams like a deranged woman,
Tearing at her hair in despair.
Time has consumed them all,
Yet one thought pricks like a thorn in every mind—
The one who left without a word.
When will he return?
In the mango grove, in the deep night,
The anguished cuckoo cries, shredding the night into pieces.
When will the suffering heart, groaning in agony,
Find the dawn?
Yet, even the day seems powerless,
Overflowing with the crimson blood of shattered hopes.
It brings forth, every day,
A chalice filled with endless grief.
The entire day is filled with the unbearable sting
Of countless needles of pain,
And he—
With tear-filled eyes, bowed in sorrow,
Looks upon the barren forest of fallen leaves,
His heart aching in the autumn desert of loss.
Where has the new life gone,
The blossoming, flourishing garden,
Now a path of thorns?
The eyes gaze into the endless void,
Where life, harsh and unbearable,
Disappears into an unknown distance.
The dance halls are empty, the theatres silent.
The veena, flute, and drum are no longer heard.
There is no more celebration, no more joy.
Anklets lie forgotten,
And fate strikes mercilessly
Upon the small bells of life.
A chill breeze of sorrow flows,
Bringing a painful shiver to the torn wounds.
Every sleeping scar awakens,
Trembling in the agony of its unhealed void.
Those adorned, fresh-bloomed, enchanting young maidens,
Now, like somber attendants, gather
The shattered pieces of broken memories.
Each tear-drenched bead they string together
Speaks of the past, long gone.
Those tear-covered canvases,
Hold onto the images of what once was.
And there—
An unanswered, agonizing question falls,
Like a burning stone,
The embodiment of suffering—
The cruel play of fate.
Only a garland of guilty breaths remains,
A sentence unspoken.
Why did fate poison his cup,
Overflowing with the nectar of life?
The sighs of the home grow heavy,
Whenever she appears before them—
A lotus in bloom,
Suddenly struck by the thunderbolt of sorrow.
Each petal, wet and pale,
Loses its luster, its life fading away.
She—
The princess of Devdaha,
Pierced by the arrows of destiny, helpless,
Yashodhara!
Her sorrow, an unwavering, silent monument,
Even time itself stands frozen, numb before it.
Her lips, dry and trembling,
Once red, now pale with grief,
Words struggling within her,
Torn apart by the effort to speak,
Forgetting their form,
Her voice falters, searching for shape,
Hanging in the emptiness without foundation.
Her lips sealed, bearing the pain,
Hardened to stone, tears flowing.
Dreams once bathed in moonlight
Turned into a cold, stony history within her eyes.
Whenever her hollow gaze fell upon Rahul,
Crawling at her knees,
A thousand flashes of lightning struck
The burning desert within her,
And time, like a cruel comet,
Disappeared from the horizon with mocking laughter,
Leaving fate trembling in its wake.
Unfortunate fate!
Helpless and defeated.
One day, Rahul, with his tiny hands,
Clung to Gopa’s knees, standing tall,
His innocent, unwavering eyes gazing
At his mother.
His small, red lips,
Trembled with words unsaid,
Searching in his baby voice
For the right words to express his thoughts.
Gopa was startled.
What question would he ask?
Her distant, vacant eyes
Filled with anxious, tearful fear.
She shook her head in silence—
“No, my child, not yet.
Do not ask anything.”
But time is not still. It moves relentlessly.
One day, that empty moment arrived.
The child, no longer at her knees,
Now stood eye-to-eye with Gopa.
In the blue lakes of his eyes,
A thousand questions bloomed like lotus flowers.
The voice—
It wasn’t merely formed by consonants.
It held the essence of emotions,
Rising and falling like the waves of feeling,
Bathed in the fresh scent of milk,
Even touched by the tender jingling
Of the childlike, restless heart.
Today, the density of the voice
Was filled with the pangs of motherhood,
A question, stumbling deep in the heart,
Yet in Rahul’s eyes,
A defiant determination gleamed,
And on his lips,
The sharp, radiant light of resolution.
Gopa trembled.
Is life like a bird,
Flying with just one wing?
The vast, infinite sky—
Can it be crossed alone?
Even in their nests,
Both parents feed their young.
If one flies away,
The other remains,
Always protecting.
Locking his gaze with hers,
Rahul spoke:
“Mother, where does Father live?
Why isn’t he with us?
Where is his chamber?”
The floodgates of Gopa’s tears,
Held back until now,
Burst open at his question.
Rahul asked again,
“You are my mother,
But where is my father?”
For a moment,
Gopa stared at him in silent agony.
She drew Rahul into her arms,
Her heart swelling with emotion.
Inwardly, she whispered:
This life is like a bird—
Flying joyfully with both wings outstretched,
Soaring in the blue sky,
Carried by the carefree winds.
But now, one wing remains attached to the body,
While the other has been severed,
Lost somewhere in a distant, thorny forest,
Its whereabouts unknown.
Fallen to the ground,
Wounded and bleeding,
It writhes in agony,
Its fate uncertain.
Turning to her son with tear-filled eyes, she said:
“My child...”
Rahul, still restless, asked again,
“Why can’t I see him?
Where is his home?
Is he gentle and loving like you,
Or has he changed into something else?
All the other children have their fathers with them,
Their mothers shower them with affection.
But why have I only received half the love?”
He continued,
“Whenever I ask about him,
People become uneasy,
Gazing at me with cold sighs
Before walking away.
You tell me!
Where is Father?
Does he live somewhere far away,
Leaving me in your care,
Without a worry in the world?”
That day,
The blood in Gopa’s veins froze.
Her lips, half-open, half-closed,
Her eyes brimming with tears,
Struggled to speak.
Her body, weighed down by sorrow,
Furrowed her brow in pain.
Suddenly, she stood up,
But her head spun.
With trembling hands,
She grabbed the wall for support,
Turning to Rahul,
She spoke:
“My child, do not ask.
Others will comfort you;
They will tell you stories.
I am your mother—
I will never lie to you.
There is a great distance
Between truth and falsehood,
But when does falsehood cling to truth?
It is the strange, harsh circumstances of time.
But I—
I will never lie to you.
Who knows how long you will stay with me?
Or if I will remain here,
Always alone,
Abandoned and orphaned.
Tell me,
In the mirror of my eyes,
Will you always remain?
Will the light of motherly love
Burn steadily in your heart,
Untouched by the winds of change?
Just tell me that.”
A slightly trembling Rahul,
Clutching Gopa’s finger, spoke—
“Mother!”
Gopa replied,
“Rahul,
Small wounds are swallowed by deeper, greater ones.
Like the countless lines of pain,
Mountains rend the heart,
And restless rivers,
Searching for peace,
Ultimately fall into the ocean,
And are lost within it.
When the individual meets the many,
It dissolves,
Losing itself entirely.
In the end, it is no longer separate but whole,
Its own sorrow forgotten,
Embracing the world's grief.
And not just the world,
But it becomes the vision of the world.
Your father—
His tender heart had never witnessed
The cruel blows of age,
The merciless strikes of death and disease,
The heartless uproar of life.
His body, mind, soul,
Caught in tangled, delicate fibers,
That gentle being of the water.
Suddenly,
The resolution to seek the truth grew firm,
And he left,
Abandoning this home.
On Rahul’s childlike, tender face,
Lines of pain appeared,
His lotus-blue eyes filled with tears.
Embracing him tightly,
Gopa placed her tear-streaked cheek on his head,
Her silent tears falling from closed eyelids.
She whispered within herself:
How long has this unbroken journey of sorrow
Dragged on alone?
With every breath,
The deep hue of seeping pain intensifies.
In this journey—
The mountains, rocks, and stones encountered—
They too were torn apart,
Countless mismatched streams flowed,
Or met somewhere,
With a river, a brook, a stream,
Their soft, delicate bodies
Scorched in the flames of the sandy desert,
Burning, crumbling, suffering,
Flaring up without relief.
This one stream of tears,
Watching silently,
Witnessing the unbearable final hours
Of the fire of separation.
Has the relentless venom of grief,
Overflowing endlessly,
Ever freed this sorrow-stricken, helpless heart,
Even for a moment?
Ah!
Pain, indomitable and deep,
Poison in every cup of life,
Pouring forth,
Relentlessly dripping.
The heart, captive,
Caught in the shell of suffering,
Imprisoned.
The eyes,
Endlessly shedding tears.
The storm of memories, thick as monsoon rain,
The unbearable heat of stinging lightning.
Nothing has yet cooled it,
This boiling, roiling flood of tears
That flows from restless eyes.
Suffering,
Threading together the stars of despair,
A mind disoriented, disturbed.
Where now are the gentle, cool,
Rain-laden clouds?
In the haze of the fiery ruins of hope,
My weary consciousness searches,
Where is it—
The full moon that once bloomed
In the sky of my mind,
Like a dream of fortune?
This life—this agonized life.
My son,
Since the day you left me,
How many sleepless nights have drowned
In Gopa’s silent eyes.
Her eyes remained as still as the vacuum,
Unmoving,
Unaware of body or mind.
Not a single day passed,
Without prayer, worship, or the lighting of lamps.
Tree spirits, gods of the village,
Kinnaras, Gandharvas,
Groves of bamboo, banyan, plantain, mango—
There wasn’t a single branch where
She didn’t bow her head.
Household gods, village gods, streets, riversides,
Wells, and paths—
In the darkest nights of the deep forest,
She anxiously lit worship lamps,
Awaiting your return.
In the month of Kartik, sky-lamps were lit,
In the month of Vaishakh,
Near the basil altar,
Her tear-lit lamps burned.
Wherever you may be,
May you be happy.
May no obstacle block your path.
Crying silently, her unshed tears streaming,
Her pain-stricken, restless days passed.
Her wounded heart, exhausted, torn,
Endlessly stitching the tattered cloth
Of her memories, day and night.”
"You,
Are the ocean of compassion,
The repository of love for the world.
You, the unattached one—Tathagata.
You even accepted
Chull Bhaddika’s fragrant jasmine invitation
With joy, from afar.
All veils fell,
Nothing left concealed.
Then why—
Why did Gopa not appear before you?
What obstacle stands in the way of your equal gaze?
Why did you,
Remain so silent, so unaware?
Was the suffering,
The pain,
Not hers as well?
Did she deserve
This unseen, unexpected punishment
In any way?
Man!
Gentle he may be,
But when crushed to his utmost limit,
He does not become stone.
What is this—
What kind of love?
What kind of compassion? What tenderness is this?
On one side, there’s such harshness,
On the other, extreme softness, such gentleness.
If there is light,
It shines everywhere.
If darkness exists,
It engulfs everything.
In one place,
There is neither both light
And darkness.
What is this—
This mixture of hardness and softness?
Some live in joy,
While others suffer in deep misery.
That newborn child,
Whom you named Rahu at birth,
Has now become Rahul.
Even his innocent eyes,
Lost in thought,
Are brimming with tears.
The learned ones prophesied—
He would become either
The Enlightened One,
Or a universal monarch.
Why didn’t you become the emperor?
If the vast field of suffering had not been yours to walk,
If you hadn’t been filled, endlessly,
With this ever-present, unceasing sorrow.
Now, what remains?
What remains is this unbroken,
Relentless,
Never-ending story of pain.
What is this—
This endless, unknown anguish?
My son!
Compassion is never one-sided.
Like the light of the moon bathing the sky,
It is everywhere.
Like the sacred Ganga,
Whenever she emerges,
She flows across earth and sky.
She, too, chooses no specific place.
Whoever comes under her shade,
Finds cool, pure water to drink.
All of this that arose in my heart,
I have said,
But to whom I spoke,
Remained silent, deep in meditation, still, unmoving.
Prajapati Mother wept.
‘Oh son! My heart cannot bear it any longer.
My body, my mind trembles.
Speak! Speak! Say something!
My silent one,
My treasure of life.
How can I place my restless, throbbing heart
Upon this cold, unfeeling stone?
Will you not open your eyes?
Will you not speak even a single word?
No message,
Nothing left behind but this knot,
This endless, throbbing, unyielding pain.
With this gift in my lap,
I will go.’"
"And there—
What answer shall I give
To the tear-soaked, sorrowful eyes,
To the pale, withered, exhausted lotus beings,
To the restless, sleepless, waiting, yearning hours,
To the days and nights?
Shall I say this:
Kanthak could not bring him back,
So he surrendered his life.
Ah, I am more wretched than Kanthak.
Even he had more fortune than I,
I have fallen lower than him.
Kanthak circled beneath the tree where the Lord sat,
He completed his circumambulation.
From head to toe, gazing at Him,
He despaired and said:
‘Ah! The Lord’s form—
These ochre robes, these empty feet,
This thorn-ridden, fearful forest.
My lone heart, pierced by thorns, trembles in agony.
This golden complexion, radiant with divine light,
This straight back,
Locks of unruly hair falling over His neck,
Like a web of rays shining golden.
I have offered all my weapons at these feet,
I once held Him in my lap,
I played with His heart in so many ways.
And today,
He has become so great in His glory.
Even to touch Him now fills me with dread.
He,
Distant, beyond reach,
Eludes my grasp.
I stand so near, yet such vast distance exists between us.
This lament, this endless wailing,
None of it reaches His ears.
Not a single word touches His heart.
What helplessness is this?
He stands revealed, without illusion,
I—entangled in a web of desires.
He—steadfast and unshaken,
I—wavering every moment,
Moving, changing, failing.
This meeting—impossible,
It cannot ever be.
He is the flower of the sky,
I, the lowest on earth.
Only nature's blows and change,
And a heart wrung through suffering.
Having given up all hope, I watch
As the deep ocean of my tear-filled eyes drowns
The foundations of my once-deep faith,
Breaking them apart.
Prajapati stands still, frozen in silence,
Helpless like a merchant,
Whose boat, filled with pearls and gems,
Swirls and sinks in the violent whirlpool.
On the shore of her river of tears,
Torn by waves of compassion,
She sobs, releasing her tears.
On one side, Kapilavastu.
On the other, the dense, complex jungle of Kajangal.
And between them—her heart,
Drenched in endless tears."
In her heart, she pondered—
How time and circumstances can become so paradoxically cruel.
Man,
No matter how much effort he makes,
They turn into immovable stones.
Confounded,
Mocked by her own helplessness,
An inward and outward struggle, pierced by problems,
She stood silently, in that desolate forest.
Her hands folded, face soaked with tears, eyes closed.
Dry, trembling lips,
Head bowed, her entire being quivered in waves of emotion.
Broken, faint words scattered upon her lips—
The very embodiment of compassion,
The shining pinnacle of a mother’s love,
Radiant, glorious.
She performed the consecration of nature with her tears,
Filling her heart with boundless sorrow.
Her prayer—
Filled with the melody of love and peace,
Like sacred vermillion, it gently fell into the forest.
She spoke, her heart full of anguished cries—
At your holy feet, a thousand-fold homage from all.
I offer my tears in worship.
O vast, blue sky!
O stars, O radiant life-light!
You, brilliant sun, casting your rays far and wide.
O constellations, horizons, endless directions!
O moon, bestower of eternal nectar,
You, gentle, cool, tender yet fierce breeze, the mighty wind,
Mighty clouds, full of strange and vibrant shades.
O all the gods of heaven!
O king of the gods, Maghavan!
With your lush green grass, smooth and tender,
And you, rivers, streaming with gushing waters,
Flowing through unknown paths—rivers, streams, waterfalls, pools,
Crystal-clear ponds filled with lotuses.
O Yakshas, Kinnaras, Gandharvas!
Forest gods!
I offer you my heart,
Wounded and filled with sorrow and compassion.
O trees, bushes, and vines,
Gather your new sweet fruits and flowers,
Never forget.
Fill this empty offering bowl—
This throbbing heart of mine.
Always offer the cool, green shade of your leaves,
May this delicate golden form never tire, never grow weary.
O fragrant paths lined with blossoming flowers,
The path the Prince walks—
Scatter your fragrant blooms upon it.
Hide, in the folds of your cloak, all thorns and stones,
Conceal them.
Under the dense shade of the Angaraka tree,
He sits in meditation,
In lotus posture, self-luminous,
The golden rays from his being spreading wide,
As the golden-hued light shines in the blue sky.
Tribal people, simple and trusting,
Clothed in rough garments,
They live close to the earth, their hearts clear and open,
They offer the sweet fruits of Shabari with love.
They give freely, from the heart,
To those who respect them, even slightly.
Only—
They are mirrors of pure hearts,
Their minds are transparent, simple, and true.
O dwellers of the forest!
I leave him to your care.
Just as the bee hums in reverence
For the hundred-petaled lotus,
Receive him,
Savor the nectar of knowledge and fragrance.
Stay close, wandering near.
With bowed head, I offer my respects to you all,
Protect my life’s treasure,
This rare, exquisite beauty
Contained in a delicate, tender heart.
Guard this precious gem,
Carefully.
O day! May you bring neither heat nor the flames of summer,
But if you must,
Call upon the monsoon with due respect.
O night! Bring not the deep darkness here,
But carry the moon’s lamp in your lap,
And lead the way ahead.
In every way, in all forms, I have offered you
My life, my heart, my soul.
In this very stone, in this fearful forest,
I leave behind my anguished heart.
In this solitary, desolate, lonely wilderness,
My life’s treasure has been lost.
Leaving it in your care,
I depart, my heart filled with boundless sorrow.
Only your love and reassurance
Shall be my sustenance,
The only reward of this earthly life."
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