Moon Temple, breathe in the hush of silver dust,
lotus bells unwind through my ribcage.
Your name, a tide of white jasmine,
lifts the burnt wings of yesterday.
We walk the mirror corridor—
footsteps erase, footsteps become.
Sky opens like an ancient eye,
sees the heart, sees the hole, sees the whole.
Om shanti, the night is a singing bowl;
Om shanti, I am the echo that stays.