Buddha in the Killing Fields

I drank too much wine last night
woke up and wrote this poem first thing -
one eye swollen shut in pain
the other red and watering.
So what if guards and angels are hung over?
No reason to hold a hanging or dull swords
to save bullets - they had plenty -
and big ones, too.
They died well - blaming no-one -
or perchance a bow in prayer I saw,
his face, him seated he pitched forward
at the waist - empty -
zeroed free of hate to hold on to
or scorn to mourn - nor avoidance - nor acceptance.
How we died then
was worthy of noble men
nor killers to be faulted
that followed orders.
The shots they fired they died from, too.
Then who will violence make its next victim?
I come back as worlds need me -
a monk-moth in a high mountain valley
no candle to circle - yet.

© Carlton Godbold 2008

Moongate Internationale