August 12, 2007
.
.
I walk to my Friends in silence,
Drop my bag and jacket on the way
Carelessly let loose my hair.
It is the moment,
As I sit,
When I’m not asleep,
Yet not thinking,
Which is silence.
.
I wonder if I can,
As I’ve done before,
Be my Friends again.
.
I hear the Peepal rustle,
The breeze touches my face
And the sky is a new blue.
Twigs fall, and leaves;
The trees are still, yet so alive.
.
.
Small movements
Butterflies and scattering leaves.
Distant sounds.
My hair blown back.
.
I am now
Too much an Individual to be the trees
Though I still love them.
In my memory,
They’ve been me;
My solace in pain.
.
.
The dry leaves fall in so many different ways
They are one with the wind
Yet different.
They don’t hold on to that moment
Or stray tune of the random whistle.
Can’t capture the courting yellow butterflies
Or the hovering dragonfly. Only
Feel and let pass.