The Mani Wheel of His Last Will and Testament

You say this terrain lies
between my irises and retinas.
The temple in its mist,
a sphere boundaried by
some rectangles and triangles,
harks the prayer-cylinders spin.

His last will and testament
is etched in
the Mani wheels.
I sigh; my hand
pushes them in action.

The sigh, the secret tongue of the firs,
rhododendrons and mulberries,
condenses on my skin.
I lick; the taste, teary and brine,
is buttery as well – the fat
essential for an aeon of shivering.

I rotate his last words and art.
Inadvertent hands ring a bell.
In a jiffy appear a thousand monks
wearing his face, also of mine.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor