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This evening
flickers with
a strange restlessness…
Is it the pigeons
fluttering within the roof
the birds
calling
in glossolaliacal tongues
across this valley
Is it the
grey warmth
of the fading sun
that lies heavy
on the
cheery, sunny green
of these unfolding hills?
Is it
the waning energy
of children at play
tiring of their games
in this quiet twilight?
Or is it
the Friend
who went away
who receded
across the mountain
like the sun
after a grey day?
A wanderer
ashen grey
rises from the east
and finds our
emerald green valley…
Shiva, as if
spreads is matted locks
over our quiet world
and descends
from Himalayan heights
to watch
our small stories
our laughable lives…
In this
mountain retreat
we laugh
we love
we eat
we struggle
with roof leaks
and water works
– the taps have too little
the floors too much…
We too dance
the dance of life
a being and becoming
a staying and wandering
In our own way
we keep pace
with the cosmic ascetic
that ashen grey
cloud of a yogi
who sometimes throws
a bolt here
a love there…
A little girl
brushes crumbs
off her skirt
Carefully, patiently
gathers them
in her tiny palm
And squats before
a line of ants
weaving their way through
the single-window room.
Here, take this,
she whispers,
in language
that’s still babytalk
and folds her hands
and bows her head…
