All the stupas scattered across mountains
and along far-flung paths are formed into bells
Heaven would have dropped in front of us
if it could—to round and harmonize
man’s heart with empyreal sound.
A drop of Heaven, gliding down
or waiting, suspended, until
the one intended comes at last
to be gathered in compassion
where an eye meets a divine eye.
And so the question always remains,
the question every stupa asks:
by what steps does Heaven
let us enter such a spirit’s heart?
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