Bodhgaya

On those fields,

Now distant fields,

Of green and meandering veins

Following footsteps of Buddha,

Differently coloured, shaped

Beads of men and women

Tied to a string of a story

Across a horizon of monasteries,

In that moment

Walked silently,

Leading once and following often

Between sudden bursts

Of conversation and laughter,

To see a red butterfly

Floating

Into a blue grey wind

Of winter.