Om Mani Padme Hum

The bugs were everywhere. In a massive swarm they flew here and there. Their tiny bodies alighted on branches for a moment and then flew off to resume their chaotic journey. Through the reeds they traveled. They buzzed and filled the cramped space between the reeds with a mass of black specks of bug. Their swarm divided into two at times, one set of insects going one way another the opposite, only to merge back again. They found moment’s refuge in the branches of overhanging trees or in the cool shade of fallen leaves or on the still surface of a pond but each time they returned to their flight, the swarm renewed in its buzzing as members came and went.

Moldy branches overlooked this pond of water. The branches groaned under the weight of the mosses that had taken root. They screeched as their insides were eaten slowly by beetles and maggots. This dying tree seemed to be supporting the lives of so many at the cost of its own. It was once a proud tree in a vibrant forest, its leaves a verdant green, its trunk straight and narrow. Since then this tree fell from that grace. Now it’s leaves lay in the muddy water being dyed brown, now no longer does the sun beat down on its strong, straight trunk but the glimmers of light that filter through the overhanging mists above barley illuminate the crooked and curved mass of wood. As the buzz of the swarm fades away, the winds pick up and tosses the few insects still clinging onto this poor tree to the ground, granting it a little rest before the sun sets.

A frog pokes its head out of the water and lets out a murky croak. The filthy water still clings to its head as it jumps out onto the dark, wet shores. With a few splashes it walks along the dirty embankment, croaking into the dying light. Then, just as if a great beast of pray had appeared in the branches, with eyes of fire, and a growl that could frighten the moon itself, the terrified frog leaps back into the water with an enthusiasm that would shame even the most amorous of lovers. With a heavy splash the water wells up behind him creating ripples to be cast over the still water and disturbing the swarm of bugs once again into flight.

The ripples are cast along the muddy shores, echoing off the shores, as they slowly rockea boat made of dark green leaves. Upon this muddy water these leaves rocks, its color a dark green, not the sickly green of the trees above, but a dark green of health. Each vein stands out, the water slowly lapping at the sides. It floats along with half a dozen leaves all are attached at the stem, as if they were kin on some family tree. These leaves float over the sickly surface of the water turning their jewel in the evening air. The bugs fly over head and the frogs croak. The branches sway and the wind whistles it’s low breaths. These leaves were left alone, nursing their prizejust as a mother might coax a baby to sleep.

Upon this vessel of verdant planks lay the jewel of the swamp. Once flowers had bloomed here often, their yellows and reds filling the air with color. Their nectar completed the smell of the forest as the fragrance mixed with the trees and the plants around it. Those times are no more. Now the land has grown dark, the flowers have wilted and died, sinking into this new swamp of filthy water. But here in the center of all this darkness is something that calls back to happier times.

Its petals the soft white of the morning sun. Its stem a deep green, healthy once more in this rancid water, and its smell fragrant amidst so much adversity. The white petals open in salute to the dying sun, as the leaves gently twist and turn in the rippling water. This jewel swims across the murky lake. It is a white beacon of life shinning in a cavern of death; a jewel of hope in this place of despair; a crown of god in this land of hell; a symbol of beauty in a swamp of filth; a lotus.