Saturday, April 17, 2010

bet on ti

Stepping across the stones set into the ground,
a broad platform, on a windy plain,
a smell of wet grass,
and dry longing in the throat,
a pilgrimage into a watery sun.

A stone-cold altar bed to lie down forever
and view the ebb of civilization
and the rise of savagery and wise wildness
the old temple encased in embracing vines
possessive, with an authority of entrenched colonials,
who for generations have settled themselves into a staple
of rock, and dust and stories that echo around the sanctum
and the open gaping archways, that had frozen over time into a slack-jawed sedation
a wheel on a wooden axle recalls the winds of yesteryear
keeping track with a to and fro rotation
a trajectory with a higher purpose.

Without the flickers of human lives that shape the colours of transience
that give breathing form to the ticking moments
the universe quietly sits under the bodhi tree,
in stone-faced enlightenment.
Without the struggles and scraping, the loves and bitter spilt blood
the curdled milk of humanity and the sweetness of hope,
the whispering of the grass continues in monotone.
The simplicity of that other reality is what we seek
every time we surface to intake air.
We are social animals who fight daily for interactions
and yet see the boundaries of our selves in solitude more clearly.

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