A whisper of saffron
a flash of burgundy
corded together spirit.
The monks are walking
A fine line along a freeway
The monks are walking.

From Austin to Washington
2,300 miles, foot by foot
sneakers slide, bare feet slap.
Whisper the monks are walking
a fine line on main street.
The monks are walking here.

Wisps of fog, then soft rain
Aloka’s tail keeps time.
Silent the monks are walking
bronze faces kindly determined,
bent forward into the deep south.
The monks are walking
In the footsteps of bloody history.

A flash of burgundy
a whisper of saffron,
monks are walking now.
Cording us as one to other
Brave monks are walking
For peace for us all.

Flowers are offered up
white, yellow and gold,
smiles and sorrows offered.
Listen, monks are walking.
Aloka charms police escorts,
see the monks walking here.

A fine line on a freeway
to our beleaguered hearts,
monks are walking on
a filament of compassion/hope.
Monks are weaving a weft,
for freedom costs dearly
Listen, the monks are walking!

When will we too rise up,
shake off indolence to walk.