Indian farmlands
Sleepy fields and dreamy crops
Rows and rows stretched out, yawning
Swallow man made huts
A Majestic milieu blossom like fruit
Seedlings sprout
Ragtag farmers like [...never finished this sentence, and there the thought ended, to be revived many years later]
Sitting in this tent at ranthambore, a single consciousness, I reflect on all that flutters around me. A friend on his own journey accompanies me. A mosquito net not in use. A small electric heater quietly chugging away, warming my bones. Lazy day. Restless night. dimly lit. Bundled up, lying, thinking... Searching. Beautiful words escape me. the prosaic feels acceptable today. Tied up, pressured, anxious, the writing is forced. Resting and waiting for my birds to chirp. Outside, people gather. Voices reverberate Iike strings of a lyre. A spontaneous symphony with no composer, no conductor. Crescendos and diminuendos, orchestrated to its own social rhythm. American or India, pick your poison...Or draught or potion or elixir. Ambitions and traditions, acts, events, happenings, the universe is in motion, it is plain to see. galaxies twinkle far off In oblivion. Neither watching not caring, friendly and aloof at the same time. How many eyes and hearts have invested their own existence into these distant heavenly bodies? So far removed from mankind, and therefore so beautiful. we all desire to travel away. The spirit will always climb to higher altitudes than those at which our bodies graze. Meadows in the skies. The spiritual arts lead us there, only briefly. A guided tour all too short, how we long to stay and yet we're soon back in the gift shop.
