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Dec 2, 2015

We Talk of Music…

We talk of music and I think of distant pastures

I dream of silent paths and heavy trees

I hear Saraswati’s voice stirring flowers in the glade

We smile and vanish through evening dew

 

A nightingale sings its rhapsodic stanzas

I clasp my hands in tightened prayer

I utter words of love to the vernacular landscape of this little world

For it is our story, not theirs, that needs to be sung

 

Stars poke through layers of blackened silk

I push fingers through glassy holes…

I perceive destiny in the haze created by distant planets

My head dips toward earth

I trust the soil and the dampness of its touch

 

I feel my soul grow spindly roots

Through heavy clay that father tilled to grow us strong

I see the butterfly of life dance between dazzling beacons

Proboscis poking into honey wells…

Life sucked through silken straw

 

I give praise to the world in its many guises

A beggar’s mask and a child’s toothless grin

It’s comical how we fear the inevitability of our story

We take it upon ourselves to walk a trodden path

To follow the footprints of destiny’s call yet we forget that marks can be left…

By the ogre of regret and the talons of despair

 

Our path needs to follow our skipping feet

To follow the cascading notes like rain from the grey

To adore the innate knowledge that resides in harmony

For we swim through life as if through a slick

We forget the currents, the eddies, the vortices – the natural rhythms into which we should plunge

 

Flow as a river like memory to the sea…

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