Strolling by a garden,
I saw a ruined buddha.

Its moon face is turned up,
contemplating.

Jagged rays reveal jagged stone
broken at the neck.

Its torso, torn in three, is robed in green moss,
the only part left still wanting to cling.

Its open palm, turned out and up,
catches a trickle of water from an adjacent spring.

At its exhausted and calloused feet,
lotus blossoms grow.

As heat breaks the statue smaller,
sweat soaks my forehead.

Cupping my hands at the light trickle
to freshen my face, water gets disturbed

and the jade eyes of the buddha
burst into tears.