Fireflies

Beautiful is the wooden mirror hanging on my bedroom wall, traced by trimmings of carved gold--- often drawing both temperate and bold reflections. There is no more second guessing for me. Words fall out of my mouth in a nectarous, daedalean puzzle even in waking now--- and you walking by, unconsumed by the paradox, is what I am praying for.

Startling to see that it’s not always a matter of seeking or speaking-- but that often the concept of being is intimidating. Nomadic in a disturbia of thoughts, as moments play out, conjoining in a symphony of disarrayed prejudices and faults. This focus alone is cause for repeated compulsions, and a fist full of conjectures that go unnoticed. But has it not been better to devour concoctions of kalonji and ginger with a touch of honey—turning what once felt bitter into what is delectable? I found myself running by the edge, where sand and water joined hands, and it was enlightening to detect that the contradiction was no longer uncharted land. But then what has happened to the question within, ask instigators with sarcastic grin. To them I say-- questions did quickly stray when no longer were we anxiety's prey, and nightmares crashed not in slumber's way-- and softest bod no longer quaked.

Staying in a state of perpetual breach, I can reach out to feel changing faces, because even the blind have opportunity to see. Wrapped inside this, I find that all my reflections show but one eye. So what lies on the other side? It is a natural high, unadulterated by dried burned leaves and rolled up sleeves. Again the contradiction lies-- how can transparency and defiance collide to create something refined? And how strange to wear this rhetorical disguise, for one who rants more raw in public eyes. My face remained the same, but my inflections abruptly changed. What comes out these lips crushes your crime, and I will not be reprimanded for speaking my mind. So do not take these for frivolous rhymes, for burning vigils do vengeance ignite. Time did take a brazen turn, and I assent its capricious nature with open arms. With whitened strands does wisdom arise, or learn do young from pure insight? What makes me human is both heart and mind, so none of the two shall be sacrificed. Because, Kahlil, I am the mirror--- but you didn’t realize.

Still this reckoning and computation need not make sense. Everything you render is not physics and math. Though science and logic do continue to run rampant beneath, it was the mystery of it that drew you to solicit formulaic ways. So why rush to relinquish what made you thirsty in the first place? The inscrutability of life makes it worth living. So don’t offer me a calculation of ingredients and numbers when you know I am count no longer keeping. I simply savor as I go along, for investing in finer gardens holds a greater charm. Measurements are made in the fragrance of the day’s end, in palms lined with such soft skin, and embracing the rhythm of my feet, as they meet with the earth. There is a mystery in sound, in touch, in sight, and in the mechanisms of our paradoxical minds. So while you record statistics and size, I stare delighted in galaxy's eyes.

Now behold— the azure bird sitting calm in the palm of my left hand, and the smoldering bolt now in the right. Two guardians stand brave at each side, setting the heart ablaze like a thousand agarbatiya. Between bridges of amnesia, across white terrain, the cobble stone now becomes glass. We glance below to catch our reflections as we pass. Contortions of your unfolding beauty did we love above all rest. Then winds changed direction, and I revolved with its force to see a story untold. If mayhem arose, then I was the culprit. Still where words fall off a cliff into a most striking abyss, there stands a hundred resolutions at best. And I turned the corner to find a child with the lightest eyes, releasing a jar of fireflies, declaring “Be free to touch the sky!” And though this selfless empathy did brighten the haze, I wondered if we had the fortitude to do the same. Aphrodite, you are now, and you were yesterday.

Beautiful is the golden mirror hanging on my bedroom wall, traced by trimmings of carved wood, and yet it often beholds both gentle and harsh benedictions. Some inflictions give birth to ayurvedic impulses indeed. Words fall out my mouth in an exotic, ambrosial song, even in sleep now--- and you walking by, unaware of the paradox, is what I am gracious for.