A thousand robed monks, bareheaded
Cross-legged before a great, brass lotus
Sink to kiss the soft silken floor
And arise to praise the celestial dawn

-

A thousand voices unite in chant
Like the lion’s waking roar
Or the audacious outcry of a horn
Echoing across the frigid mountains

-

Behind gnarled wooden doors
Warding off the cold and inharmonious,
The snow wolf is born:
Glorious, merciful, rare

-

A large bell sounds from the temple
Rousing the spirits from their slumber
To bring about compassion and growth
And turn the noble nine-fold wheel

-

Here, at the centre of the world
Where everything stands still,
The lungs of existence breathe

-

Far and away from here
To the structures of suburbia,
Where smoke rises from an unlit fire
And the wheel is ceased in motion;
The Gregorian chants,
Which echo across the frigid mountains,
Are drowned by confusion and despair.