Three lines in the middle and no back

No one more important than the last

A cylinder of ancient brass

Covered with scriptures from the past

It sits there amongst the others

Dark brown, almost black.

One of one hundred and eight,

It waits for those who pass through the stupa gates.

A lady emerges dressed in deep red and begins to recite prayers in her head.

From left to right she spins each wheel in hopes her soul might eventually heal.

Number ninety three at last feels the warm touch of devotion

From the woman’s hand that sets it into motion.