Buddha beside the Screen

 


The Buddha Beside the Screen

He lies beneath the flickering light,
a sleeping Buddha on the shelf,
serene in bronze,
resting where the images never sleep

Placed near the screen —
that restless oracle of our time —
he keeps no distance from the world,
yet remains untouched by it.

One day, while cleaning,
I noticed droplets on his brow.
Water, surely — nothing more.
And yet, they lingered.

Too fine to ignore,
too quiet to dismiss.
They held the weight of witness,
the ache of awareness.

Had he seen what I had streamed?
The noise parading as news,
grief edited into segments,
and laughter sold by the minute?

Children running from smoke,
leaders loud in voice, hollow in vision
love reduced to tropes,
truth traded for trend.

Perhaps he did not sweat —
he reflected.
Perhaps it was not moisture —
but a mirror to my gaze.

In his stillness,
he absorbed it all—
without recoil,
without refusal.

And in that moment,
I saw it plain:
it was not he who trembled,
but the world reflected in him.

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