The Bhikshuk

Humble and proud, wrinkled scars showed
A purity picked in her eyes, that smiled a trace of time;
Of age and a wisdom of non belonging, a stick to aid
Her travelling feet: head pointing to stars and base
Pointing to mud; The simplicity of a stroller with an
Empty bowl in a sea of thoughts; not thirsty though,
The smile catches on as her old hand trembles: to lift
And bless- compassion and care with nothing to lose;
Nor, to gain, lifts her stick again for
Another stroll, on another plane