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When my eyes are closed partially,

Buddha-like, in dhyana, 

Then my index finger touches my thumb 

To create a subtle energy.

A string of knotted thoughts 

Runs amok spilling its hues  onto the canvas of my mind

Alarming me. Violence, genocide

War, bodies exhumed from mass graves,

And that nameless cemetery that stretches 

Through miles baffles my naivety. My mind, 

That blindly searches for peace,

Weeps at atrocities.  And then, voices of angst 

Travel miles across oceans from Srebrenica 

To touch a shattered me.

With a jolt my eyes open. And my spirit questions:

Was I so distanced from uniting in you, Oh faceless one?

How I long to pursue peace and tranquility!

Yet, how it evades me. Each choppy thought

Ricochets, hitting my vulnerability,

Reminding me that my mind’s not yet empty.

Where is this quest going to lead me?

How many doors will I knock at

To find my cuppa peace!

Can my persona detach itself from this troubled sense of being?

Can it shrug off eighty four hundred thousand births* 

If I’m to inch closer towards equanimity?


Mumtaz Khorakiwala


Picture courtesy:Benjamin Balázs  


Dhyana: meditation 

Eighty four hundred thousand births – Mahadevi Akka vachana, the number of births and deaths to achieve Nirvana, Speaking of Siva


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