At first the lane is only banded black
below the chlorine’s hard, unpitying shine;
the monk draws ring on ring across the sand,
the runner gives another dawn to time.
Five a.m.: another prayer. Again.
Another scale. Another checklist read.
Another mile that pares the haze from sense,
another turn through what the day has said.
Then comes the change: not fervour, not release,
but 修行 — the ordinary entered whole;
and with it comes تصفية: the slow
removal of the film from sight and soul.
We do not aim at excellence. It stays
like ash from fire on ordinary days.