Araliya

the frangipani tree

cries tears of milk

as the coarse hand grabs at her

children

flowers of a deep magenta

the same hands that will 

offer these flowers to a statue

of the Buddha

the same hands that will be held together

in worship

as the woman says the five precepts

pāṇātipātā veramaṇī sikkhāpadaṃ samādiyāmi

but here she is

tearing off flowers from the

frangipani tree

that cries tears of milk

blood turned white

the way a mother's blood

does

and as she weeps

her neighbor tells her

cry not so much, they do not know what they are doing

but these are my children

my beautiful children

the frangipani tree cries

why can't they have the ones blown to the ground

by gushes of wind?

and her neighbor, older, wiser

or perhaps merely more observant of human nature, says

in their eyes, fallen flowers are too dirty

for their Buddha

although he speaks not a word now

his words are uttered

blasted through speakers

carved into pages of books

abstain from harming living beings

they mutter like parrots

day after day

without once thinking of the pain

they inflict on us

even as they wipe away our milky tears

adinnādānā veramaṇī sikkhāpadaṃ samādiyāmi

as they take what is not theirs

flowers that never grew on them

from trees that never grew in land that is their own

this is what we are cursed with

parts of us ripped from our bodies

the curse of being

who we are

nothing but

temple trees