“through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us. . ."

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

The Bamboo Grove

Cut it right below at the stem

Where it bursts out of the soil

Seeking light and rain and air

The soil softened with the fallen yellowed leaves.

In the grove,

Warblers might be twittering

Pheasants would be muttering

Doves would be cooing

Lizards would be basking

In the sun.

The lone old cobra would be huddling,

Its last skin too, shed.

Above, the green slender long leaves

Would be chattering in the breeze

The poles, a-yellowed, a- green

Would be listening and smiling.

Cut it – in one swing

Let it not split

Do not – listen to the muted groans

The pain of parting.

Lay them side by side

Like soldiers fallen at the cavalry charge.

Forget the snake

Forget the Warbler

Forget the breeze

Forget the creaking song

The bamboo had sang together

Swaying in the gentle wind-

Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra

Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra

Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra .

When the murmur finally stops

Walk away – but -

Do not turn and look around

Lest your eyes fall on

The severed hearts of the Bamboo - Or

Your heart you left behind, bleeding.

***************** Balachandran,30.07.2008