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Jain monks forsake their beds,
Lie upon the earth’s bare chest,
Surrendering every comfort of flesh.
Yet one ascetic, seeking further,
Rises above even the ground,
Sleeping only in upright silence---
A marvel of monastic grace.
But I, bound by the world’s embrace,
Cannot bid farewell to my bedding.
When I fall into its tender folds,
It cradles me, a mother’s arms,
Soft and warm, whispering dreams,
It banishes the weight of the day,
A balm for my restless soul.
In its nest, I find peace------
A refuge, a wellspring of strength,
To wake and rise again.
Each night, I return to its shelter,
Restored, as it rocks me gently,
Back to the source of quiet comfort.
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