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
9-7-2022
Picture courtesy:Benjamin Balázs
Glossary:
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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