So serene seemed the Holy beads in the monks palms
So clueless seemed the bells that clinked to no harm
The Grape headed savior lies n a hall of famed serene
The Savior whose abode overlooks the lush that’s beyond green
Each morn, fruits they have and leaves held between their hands
They tender to every bud even to the slender ones that seem to fall
Quench of water, mauve their Supreme Spirit
Even without a single quarter that can live up to their merit
A Righteous Soul that they together behold
To whom they bow, and for whom their fruits are to be given now
A thought so deep, a mantra that all these monks keep
“Let the world be full of peace… not a Noting Hill that’s build for another niece.”
Hence it was called, the Monastery Of Life, the Monastery that lived.
A wounded soul, hence the monks were told
They shuddered; they held their hands as high as the skies that thundered
A drop of crimson, on the Holy ground that’s so far bathed only by the rising sun
Troops of their own mankind, stood there by the door
With an intension that’s not pure but totally blind
They ran for no cover, they held the Supreme with all power
A last view of the world that seemed so serene and of their Savior
Whose abode was now on the lush green.
Swords and martials, celebrated their conquer
Where monks and rationales, lie there in a pool of blood with no cons or queers
Yet the sun rose, although a monastery of grave was gross
A deep meaning that it truly still beholds
“Let the world be full of peace… not a Noting Hill that’s build for another niece.”
Hence it was called, the Monastery Of Life, the Monastery that lived.
