untitled
now up past the temple
where the hill is bright in mist,
there's a dark-cloaked bhikhu
who'll help my mind untwist,
and halfway to dharamsala
you can hear my passion die;
(it's true i swore i loved him -
but who did i mean by "i"?)
so come and make me silent
where the butter lamps are hot,
let me listen to the clouds decide
what is real and what is not.
since what i see is fugitive
and what i see it with won't stay,
puff me out and let me live
where the hill is bright in mist,
there's a dark-cloaked bhikhu
who'll help my mind untwist,
and halfway to dharamsala
you can hear my passion die;
(it's true i swore i loved him -
but who did i mean by "i"?)
so come and make me silent
where the butter lamps are hot,
let me listen to the clouds decide
what is real and what is not.
since what i see is fugitive
and what i see it with won't stay,
puff me out and let me live
Labels: poetry
Selected by manisha lakhe |
14:13 |
3 Comments:
This one, Manisha, is better than my coffee... actually, adds flavour to an otherwise rather unremarkable cup of nescafe. :)
Have to say I look forward to your writing & this one was well worth the "looking forward"! There's a traditional poetic rythym that sometimes I long for with nostalgia, having long become a victim to free verse and free form.
Also feeling emotionally empathetic, having oft lost the "i" and searched vainly amidst clouds and mountain forests.
More power to you, girl!
This had a rather surreal effect on me:
"so come and make me silent
where the butter lamps are hot,
let me listen to the clouds decide
what is real and what is not."
:)
Post a Comment
<< Front Page