Gautama was conceived in the purifying water of the monsoons,
a sweetness aliting to invite the morning bell.
He came to a wealthy world, somehow impoverished,
yet bathed in the crimson light of life;
Blind and unable to shine our gaze into the void,
We complain of distance – when really
there is none between hearts.
Millennia later, the gratitude is mine,
only in the sense that I do not resist its source,
the light.