But now it is us who pauses
The author reading for writing a story
The language that reverses us
To a most primitive lucky passenger

A witness where the light breaks
Into a reverence for literature
The spoken, written, mutable word
All symbols that connect the dots


The dots that were stars, people, children
Young as life seems to new eyes
Full of liquid cherished wonder
I remember the dazed starling

Of the joy of writing, reading became
A brilliant daring of how I sought
To imitate a world that had come and gone
And to give new meaning to old words


And to combine Sanskrit and mandarin
Ideas into contemporary English
But now it is us who pauses
And I dream fluently

And I give in to the neurological pangs
Of melting into the created word
The unity sentences of all belonging
To the same story, of the same source.



Let your burdens, and our blind mischances
Rest, this is the luckiest to know
That we are not unique, the kindest truth
And that our souls may freely come and go

We must at least renounce breath
And the musky annointment of tired lungs
The certain tang in an off-beaten heart
The weary weight of years in bones

It is not for us to say, what were the fruit
Of blooming wisdom or peace that stepping back
To loving simplicity, the omens of
What comes next, that we have not always

The time to say goodbye, because we live
By instinct, and follow particular bearings
From the source, no backward glances then
No ceremony, for irregular events that fit together

In the story of our time, whose full dimensions
Remain unknown, or without prescident.



On the Egyptian papyrus
I read the star-chart of the future
There are no credits in fate

No discretion in life-experience
As if life were a mere accident
In some ghost-continuum of

Many possible futures, variables
Of natural algorithms of what
Was meant to be, after all –

Beneath Spring light as lovely
As candles in the Earth’s own womb
I felt the racing of embryos

Life, love and the plummet of years
Priceless as the attendants of lost hours
I sought to unloose the perfect

Formula of being, but there was none
No happiness that led to lasting joy
Except for the strange spiritual instinct.

Photo Courtesy: