Her tears wash the cold stone floors,
A gong rings off in the distance,
Birds chirp around her,
Monks chant mantras for the night’s prayer.
Smoke comes from the sandalwood,
Wisps of images past.
Candles flicker about her,
Catching the gold of her skin,
Making the shadows dance.
The song of her world enchants the mid autumn air,
Whispering of an early winter snow fall.
O! The poor monks!
They might freeze in this old monastery of hers.
She weeps for them.
Protect your children
Keep them safe, Kwan Yin.

 
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