“There are no sons to give shelter,
no father, no family
for the one seized by Death,
no shelter among kin”
                — Dhammapada

The shadow lengthens, breaks on the sugarcane fields
as the day advances. There is very little that I can do
before darkness settles at the corners of my eyes,
the cold stiffens the bones as indigo dusk deepens.

The footwear has worn thin doing chores, my palms
are a complex fold of lines, scales of skin and age. 
I have picked a lifetime litter of dry leaves from almond trees,
collected oranges fruits that hung like rice paper lanterns.

This is the last winter,  I stand before a hearth stoked by
strange hands and drink my tepid tea alone in a hotel room
that still holds warmth of bodies wrapped in swathes of  
Kashmere shawl as the moon froze  like a saucer of milk.

I remember the lives that started journey from my loins –
paths since covered in dust. My life map is a crisscross of transits;
at every departure a new passenger sat on the seat next,
telling not the stones I gathered on the way, but the ones I dropped.









Photo : Pete McGregor


2 thoughts on “Journey

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