Not all names are carved in stone.
A young monk, Cunda, steps from the margins of time.
Raised among humble work and dawn’s first bells, he learned to listen.
On the road between fields and shrine, he heard a teaching of release.
He laid down the tools of youth, took up the robe, and entered silence.
Here, where wind combs tall grass and footsteps soften in dust, he trained.
Pali verses stitched his days—simple, enduring.
Not a master’s thunder, but a steady river shaping stone.
Through such quiet lives, the Dharma crossed villages and generations.
The place remembers: moss, brick, the hush before chant.
Lean closer; the forgotten becomes near, and the world around Pali opens.