By Sherdyl Motz
His bright ochre robe glowed,
like those of his fellow monks,
standing in sharp contrast
to the dull, shell-torn pavement
he sat upon.
Smoke gloomed the horizon
and jets whistled above.
A curious crowd collected.
The monks solemnly intoned
an ancient, Buddhist chant.
The monk read a poem
of his anguish over the war,
Already a subscriber? Log in
You have read 5 articles this month.
For only $3 per month or $28 per year, you can read as much as you want!
A digital subscription includes unlimited access to current articles–and some exclusive digital content–released throughout each week, over thirty years of articles in our Dharma archive, as well as PDFs of all back issues.
By Sherdyl Motz
His bright ochre robe glowed,
like those of his fellow monks,
standing in sharp contrast
to the dull, shell-torn pavement
he sat upon.
Smoke gloomed the horizon
and jets whistled above.
A curious crowd collected.
The monks solemnly intoned
an ancient, Buddhist chant.
The monk read a poem
of his anguish over the war,
ending with a plea for peace.
The pungent smell of gas
pierced the air as he was doused.
The chanting began again.
He calmly struck a match, flared into flame,
and became a suttee for peace—
an ash memorial sent
into the Great Void.
Sherdyl Motz is a Vietnam veteran and peace activist.
