that will harden into the Rifs of their dynasties
and then erode to build the foothills of their blood,
as it has been told .
THE JAIN BIRD HOSPITAL IN DELHI
Outside the hotel window, unenlightened pigeons
weave and dive like Stukas on their prey,
apparently some tiny insect brother.
(In India, the attainment of non-violence
is considered a proper goal for human beings).
If
one of the pigeons should fly into the illusion
of my window and survive (the body is no illusion
when it's hurt) he could b.e taken across town to the bird–
hospital where Jains, skilled medical men,
repair the feathery sick and broken victims.
There, in reproof of violence
and of nothing else, live Mahavira's brothers and sisters.
To this small, gentle order of monks and nuns
it is bright Vishnu and dark Shiva who are illusion.
They trust in faith, cognition and non-violence
to release them from rebirth. They think that birds
and animals-like us, some predators, some prey–
should be ministered to no less than men and women.
The Jains who deal with creatures (and with laymen)
wear white, while their more enterprising hermit brothers
walk naked and are called
the sky-clad.
J ains pray
to no deity, human kindness being their sole illusion.
Mahavira and those twenty-three other airy creatures
who turned to saints with him, preached the doctrine of
ahimsa,
which in our belligerent tongue becomes
non-violence.
It's not a doctrine congenial to snarers and poultrymen,
who every day bring to market maimed pheasants.
I
