The village has a song
If you sit still and strain your ears
You will not hear it.
Rather, awake with the rising sun;
Breathe the morning air and
Feed the monks;
Proceed to that which you call your work
And be ever mindful of the “now”.
And when the time for that which you call work passes,
Wait patiently for the night
Amidst the gentle swaying of the hammocks,
The laughter of the children,
The delight of spices filling the air,
The lazy gait of homeward bound cattle.
And as the crickets chirp louder with each house light turning off
You can be assured that you have heard the village’s song.
After all, you danced to it all along.
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