The Rishi
The world stretches like a dream
in which you weave words
and rhythms, in which you speak
of lost love; the courtyard
of a house around the bend
waits for you.
Ships sail out to vast seas.
You cross them to find work,
and happiness. Temple
bells ring in your absence.
They ring for you even now
when forms, shapes, habitats
are erased. You wake from
dreams of long ago,
ancestral vaults in the sky.
Fold of paper and cloth
unwrap before you in scrolls.
Do you wish to become
immortal?
Do you wish to float lights
placed in earthen bowls --
decorated with marigold knots,
in the river that fell from
the high heavens. Was held
in check by the matted locks
of a blue throated god.
He swallowed the poison.
More is left in the cup.
Do you want to be a Rishi?
The pale faced Dadichi, he
who brought to earth
the river of immortality so that
men could live.
Do you wish
to fashion a new creation?
[© Lalita Pandit, August 8, 1998].
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