Said the chief monk, ‘It`s time
for pan wadeema now…’
We, her grand-children, drew closer,
As my father set right,
The upended cup,
On the white plate.
As the monks,
Seated opposite the coffin,
Enwrapped with a white-cloth,
Water spouted out,
From the porcelain jug,
Held over the cup,
By all of us.
It slowly filled,
And water brimmed over,
Into the plate,
Where it rested.
Water:
The ever-young, the ever-fluid,
The ever-abundant, the ever-lasting;
What has it to do with life?
I wondered and wondered.
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