Here the Nokia ringtones, screaming babies
among the chants of ancient sutras.
There the selfies with monks, solar panelled
pagodas, and 10 yuan photographs.
600 monks are gathered for a prayer for world peace
Measured in the gigabytes of recorded insta videos.
Here the sonorous wail of the dungchen
There the stomp of ancient drums.
Each metronome is soaked
in the parochialism of history.
Each pendular swirl of a shaven head is
a scar of the longevity of tradition.
It is the typical measure of half-hearted ego
To claim the sacred reigns to world peace.
Signs warning against photography and smoking throng
amidst the camera flashes and choking tobacco of Chunghwas.
And as the prayer concludes with a storm of drums,
the young monks awaken from their slumber
marinated by a thousand-year old boredom
Hurtle out into the sunlight and the cans of coca-cola.
The older linger taking their place behind counters
selling factory-made trinkets blessed to bring
health, fortune, happiness and wealth.
Piles of 1 yuan notes clogs the monastery.
And a tourist throws a paper bank note into a wishing well
It floats above the sea of drowned coins.
Perhaps he knows something we don’t.
The light rain billows into a deluge.
Wet umbrellas find shelter under reconstructed stupas.
Filth washes away into the Tibetan valley.
And the prayer flags swing heavily,
soaked in the acids of the clouds.
Photo taken at Sumtseling Monastery, Yunnan