Temple of the Golden Pavilion

The pavilion floats

on a skin of water,

gold leaf catching

the morning sun.

Tourists move in quiet waves

around the pond’s edge,

cameras raised

like offerings.

They say the temple once burned—

flames rising like a prayer

too loud to be contained.

Gold turned to smoke,

ash scattered into the lake.

Memory made visible

for a moment.

The temple you see now

is not the temple that was.

This one remade—

each panel replaced,

each stone set again,

as if nothing was lost.

In the water’s reflection

it is always whole.

In memory,

there are burn marks

you cannot see.

I stood there wondering

how many times

we can be rebuilt

before we are no longer ourselves—

or if the truth is this:

we are always burning,

always rising,

always returning,

another shape of gold

floating again

on a skin of water.