The Temple Bell is rung
calling the Sangha
Murmuring.
Tinkling piano in the Honda,
Smell of burning incense
while all assemble.
The twice struck gong -
Ringing with Reverberations
like the dropping of a stone
into a water-pool.
The waves come and go
expressing impermanence
and fading into emptiness,
blending with the silence of the Sangha
The Service Chairman speaks-
And we fly,
Singing, Chanting, Responding,
Hearing the Talk.
And comes the close
with “Announcements? ”,
“New people? ”
Tea.
What a joyous gathering!
We talk; we are connected.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sathsanghs are very common in India and some other oriental countries. The joy we get by participation is immense. Thanks for sharing. sathya narayana