The Nuns of Shwedagon

The Nuns of Shwedagon

A clipping: from Shwedagon pagoda
young Buddhist nuns file past the camera
out into the heat and chaos of Rangoon.
Their robes are palest coral and deep amber;
their heads are shaven and they are barefoot,
hands joined in the posture of prayer.
Only one is looking at the camera lens,
lifting her robe to cover her lower face.

What they are thinking, I cannot guess:
perhaps their minds are utterly focussed
on the hypnotic mantras of their sect -
but they must know their piety and dignity
will not count a jot in the turmoil outside,
where the pitbulls of the regime – militia thugs,
red-kerchiefed regulars in jungle greens,
not yet unleashed, are baying to be freed.

And though men have no monopoly on courage,
and their brother monks, too, armed only with piety
filed out that morning: still, in the aftermath -
emptied monasteries and chivvied crowds;
dead monks; roads littered with bloodied sandals -
my thoughts return to those young women,
like so many fragile flowers, pink and amber,
and the steel of their faith in the face of the storm.