[ The piece is dedicated to the iron will of a Sadhu or a Fakir. One who has no attachment to human bonding, one who is brave enough to be ONE. Chillum is a clay pipe used by many of them for smoking.
This piece is not related to any particular sect / belief / religion, but is written as an ode to the nomadic, free mind of such a person. I do not wish to glorify any particular religion, as I believe all paths lead to the same Almighty. ]
Winds ruled his unkempt locks.
Forehead smeared with ash,
eyes hidden behind
dense brows; skin in ripples,
suntanned tattoos on arms
"Where from have you come, Baba?"
He replied sweetly to me,
"it doesn't matter, Son,
what matters is . . . I have reached here",
words flowed
with smokes from his Chillum.
"But why do you roam about?"
He stared at my books,
and asked back, "why do you read?"
"Oh! Don't you have any friends? Relatives?"
He patted my shoulder,
"One Family. One Light. One World.
HIM !", pointing heavenward.
"Where will you go?"
"That is irrelevant, my boy.
What matters is . . .
I keep moving!
Lord, the day is about to end,
the night will settle down,
keep me moving."
