the further this walks
the more this understands
the less this understands
the shortness of this path
this knows no justice --
if a boy of such age and hair
can walk into a temple of everliving saints
and having failed the domain of worldly pursuits
be fed and clothed and housed and otherwise
taught the dharma out of the great and vastness of
the human Heart?
for what has he done?
to deserve this opulence,
to be stuffed full of God's splendor and riches and rotli
and even the golden hue of the late afternoon sun off
a courts yard of neem trees.
where gandhi himself walked spoke and slept?
the perfume of orange rind hanging still in the air
a dusty city of commerce all around him
and this barefooted wandered alone
with three beds and running water and the
infinite gift of solitude at his disposal?
what possibly could he have done? what prayers
could they have said for him? may your son be honored
in all lands and epochs as the vagrant incarnation of
combless and wiry:
let him be rolled in ghee, drown in fruit,
laugh at the priests and wink at the maidens!