speechless

Every now and then I think I see a shadow

stop between the flowers.

Where is the death of the moths ?

Is it in the external form of the flames ?

The last words of a leaf are not spoken hence they are words.

There is space everywhere to come and go.

That’s all there ever is in the end.

Everything becomes insignificant because they are significant.

To return back to the moving of the breath is the last anchor.

There is not even the slightest vibration.

The heron breaks the stilled mirror with its beak.

The wind brushes a droplet spilled on its smooth feathers.

You taste what it has tasted.

Even though you have not moved an inch.

Flat Line

There is woodsmoke rising in the distant.

A small thread of manifestation.

The same energy that mixes pastel shades

of an artist.

How is it that it separates to where it came from ?

To the nature when we blink an eye.

When an infant feeds on the breast of his mother.

When we smile at each other over the brink of our tea cups

or to a simple sight of a bursting sunset ?

This

Just felt like loving you today
when I had nothing to offer
from the trees in my garden
where they’ve taken my every flower.

Just felt like looking at you today
when the emptiness of things
filled my muscles and bones
which I’ve given up as offerings.

Just wanted to sit like you today
and breathe in the scent of the stars
that sometimes roam the earth
in firefly bodies.

Didn’t mean to wet my eyes today
at the things I saw,
how even the floor in my room
turned out to be the most beautiful.

Shape of Silence

At the mouth of two rivers.
These feet that have carried me
are not aware of the skies above.
There is an extra wink in the stars tonight.
As if mocking me.
Mocking this pain that is a flat line now,
infront of me that sometimes
takes the shape of a lone mallard.

There is no telling
what silence is made of.
But I know just this now.
What is beating inside me
is the sound
of my own two wings to fly.