On Moving On

September 25, 2017

It had been a while
or maybe it hadn’t,
she tried, once more, the way he had taught her,
savouring the moment like a grain of rice
still covered in its husk of quiet,
feeling its shape and size and taste,
letting its gritty voice fill her hungry mind
with exhilaration but
it was no use.
What was a moment, she wondered,
when each life had its own clock,
the violet kurinji flowers that bloomed
every twelve years on the slopes of the Nilgiris,
what was a week to them, even a month,
even the dead had their own cycle,
remembered once a year with ritual and feast,
the priest pouring oblations into a waiting fire,
what was time to them.

What is a moment but everything before it
and everything after and everything that can never be,
should a moment that began and ended with footsteps
be measured in distance or time,
she tried again to empty her mind, the way he had taught her,
each second growing hands,
each second a many armed demon
dancing in an unordered rhythm,
it was no use.
In the horizon a primordial sun
coloured the ruins of a two hundred year old temple,
its broken bell filled with bleeding cloud,
the footsteps had faded away into
forgotten prayers,
wouldn’t everything be bearable,
she wondered,
if silence was just
the absence of sound. 

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