Towards The End Of The Season
Towards the close of sharada
wool clouds filled the blue sky.
Passing, they threw upon this mortal
an interpretation of nebulous dreams.
You pick up the bamboo
someone has discarded
make holes, pour deep breath in.
The soul has waited for it,
to pickup songs that wandered across
the open skies.
But, where does the music live
go or grow, I am the bamboo
Sit under a Bho tree in mahamudra
a white horse gallops through the vast emptiness.
Following it may be a camel, a mule or my own limbs
that carry the accumulation till the journey ends.
Endlessly journeying, life lives on caravans.
In the end the tune of breath blown
calls me, into the hollow space.
I stand witnessing, eyes moist,
the haze of irritating dust
between us has screened up
as an impregnable fortress, though a wall of cloud
“I am the sound of thunder, the cloud yet to melt
I am the ecstasy of union beyond the words and symbols
you are enslaved”.
You said, “learn the essence”
When my horse died, my camel died
and no longer could I walk
my journey asked me to stop.
I am the aim of music from my own breath
singing through the bamboo within.