Powdered stones and gems, used to make the colored sand,
Intricate patterns weaved from it, detailed to the very end.
Geometric shapes that are crafted, with care and surgical precision,
To lose themselves in space and time, is the monk's self heal decision.
The Mandala is captivating, colors and shapes have a meaning,
But to get attached to that image, is to the monk a bit demeaning.
Deliberately, in one fell swoop, he destroys with his very hands,
Sand gathers in the center, to be immersed in nearby wetlands.
Destruction of an entity, that was ephemeral as ever,
Enables one to start afresh, makes one artistic forever.
You can't rest on your laurels, you need to daily toil,
- It feels like a child's play, when you return soil to soil.
I daily distill emotions, and via my poems the pain destroy,
That each day I have to labor anew, makes my heart hum with joy.
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