By the tall trees – a shattered temple from an earlier rule; No monks are there – the cold wall stands oddly. Where the pond shows fair, a dragonfly comes out and suns itself; Where the monstrous tree makes a shade, an hummingbird flies out and around. On ancient flagstones, the pavements are crossed with tall grass; In shadowed galleries, the pictures are patched with moss and age. Even the hall of contemplation is spent and melted away – This world of dust and decay still wants more of our sorrow.
Zashnain
An avid blogger, twitterer and photojournalist, Zashnain Zainal suffers from an incurable addiction to social work, helping marginalised communities since 1989. Nowadays he travels from the plantations of Malaysia to the slums of Thailand. He can be found at zashnain.com and @bedlamfury
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