In the grove stands the Vishnu temple.
Scars that mark carving marbles , they are silver and gold.
I kneel to the ground , incense burning and Buddhists’ murmur around.
Walking through the tranquil air , I can see neither green hills hiding in misty rain nor bird’s twitter in lotus scent .
Only then the wind is howling like a swirling storm inside , passing by the wat , watching the ups and downs of time.