Lift the hip high – higher still
it’s fine now –
warmth of urine, muscles relax on your face
even as shame of helplessness surface,
humiliation as the body falls apart. Mind racing
at the years ahead of dependency:
washroom appears miles away,
the door a few more miles
and the world outside never.
You close your eyes
a shriveled flower wrapping up
holding the petals from falling:
for how long
for how long ?
(The title of this poem is taken from here –
‘These dove-grey bones are the gourds
thrown away in the autumnal season.
What pleasure is there in looking at them?’
— Dhammapada, Wisdom Of The Buddha)