The toll is four times tar of road,
The express highway to horizon
So tall Buddha can stand at end
Near where miasmas evaporate.

Buddha was our utter shambles.
The shambles are gathered heat
For the ruins to show up in eyes.
Eyes are a ruin , a toll to extract
By moneybags between prayers.

Buddha stood over ruins of time
As toll we paid for atavistic folly.
We would then count our fingers
In garland on our proud treasury.

Buddha women hovered angels
On wings above Buddha smiles,
In stone leaves stirring wisdom.
We calculate what ruins we are.

(on a visit to the ruins of Buddhist stupa in Amaravati)

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