A poem by Madhuri
We’re not just grey now,
we’re shining white
– those of us who are left –
while all around us
the world
gnashes its teeth,
gnashes its bones
crunching and sloshing
on a neighbour’s thigh
It’s no feast out there though,
just rending
and spitting out
with the discontented glower
of the shallow –
Yet, not so far
from this new/old carnage
the clear pipe of a saxophone
rises
heartfelt, from deep soul:
Buddha Hall on a Saturday
night in Corfu
White locks shining
we sit
while Sunrise –
one of the best
songs of our time –
flows through us
like thrilled water
We don’t dance now
not so much
We don’t look sideways
at each other
for a chance –
We sit inside a hilltop crystal
among the ruins
elevated back to the start –
And someone’s had the
glad temerity
to play an old, old discourse
by a guy called ‘Bhagwan’
where he praises
the New Man.
October ‘25, Arillas
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