A Door

A dark Burma teak door opens
Silently on its brass hinges,
Leaving its archway brooding
With many thoughts intruding.

It reveals an empty space
Of shadowed light traceries,
Where time’s phantoms find
Ancient knowledge confined.

The door, in its quartefoil hides
A tradition rich in grain and thought,
Giving a glimpse of mysteries sublime
Opening silently the door of the mind.

April 1984, Delhi

Reality’s Barometer

Sit in a barge
Sailing on a moonlit night
On the shimmer of the river,
Then wakeup
With a stiff shoulder and
A recriminating hangover.

Watch at night how fireflies streak
Through the dark foliage
Like magical beings,
During the day you soon realize
They’re just a bunch of
Crawling insects.

Shifting Shadows

(A reflection on the Latin,
pulvis et umbra or
of our dusty shadowy existence)

The shadow sticks to you
When you depart from it,
Indicating something
In its faint outline.

In its pastel contours
It reveals, for a moment,
An imperfect representation
Of a shadowy existence.

Somber in the pale shadows
Of its adumbration
The penumbra hides the
Bright light of the universe.

June 2007, Hachioji