Blowing through sacred space in disrepair, jasmine scented smoke and thoughts of what could be. Exotic flowers are absent from the garden. Work to do litters the temple. A crumbled stupa was erected though the efforts of not-doing as the hands of those present were elsewhere. Observe the ghosts, circling an unlit flame. Depleted of purpose, ki drained. The birds' songs are no longer heard over the traffic. Airplanes pass behind overcast skies. This is perfection in the absence of truth. It is almost worthy of a tear.
Mourn the loss, but see what will appear when the spirit returns to this place.
Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bodhi svaha.
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[Cross-posted from Inexhaustible Things.]