A Poem from the Book:
“Through the Window of Taj Mahal” ( a book of 30 poems)
The Earth,
My place of exile,
Is bounded on the north by Motion,
On the south by Blood,
On the east by Passion,
And on the west by Repetition.
Its flag Rainbow,
Its coin the Sun,
Its religion Beingness,
Its government Change,
Its industrial products Ashes,
And its spokesman Love.
Its greatest musician the Wind,
Its greatest artist the Spring,
Its greatest poet the Night,
Its greatest philosopher Water,
And its greatest champion Earthquake.
To remain hungry at its generous table
Is suffering without reward,
And to eat with greed
Is a sin without punishment.
In its fields
From the ashes of the killed and the killers
Grow grains with the same taste,
And Chastity and Debauchery
Take their ablution under its rains
In the naked body of one blossom.
Oh Thought,
In this exile
Do not complain about the Beginning.
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