I was twenty-five
and traveling the world alone,
just me,
near Kota Kinabalu,
on Borneo by the sea.

I wandered on a shell-strewn path
where the jungle met the sand,
when a balmy breeze
passed through the trees
of a nearby banyan stand.

A swinging figure caught my eye,
in saffron robes bedecked,
a monk that swayed from side to side,
hanged from a rope until he died,
with a sign hung from his neck.

I stared in horror toward the tree
and tried to read the sign,
while to and fro the figure swung
upon the point the rope was hung,
like a pendulum marking time.

The words were written in Malay
and left my mind beguiled,
with paint deep red,
the legend said,
"This was the monk who smiled."

I stared into the dead man's face
considering how he'd sinned,
and noticed now,
between the boughs,
that still the monk's corpse grinned.

I said a prayer before I left,
then headed toward the sea,
and wondered then
what those cruel men
would choose to do to me,
if I could meet my death with grace,
a blissful smile upon my face,
not mad or scared,
devoid of cares,
in this exotic place.