my Cupboard a Box
my cupboard there is a box,
They mark times,
I put them there knowing
obviously I would open this box someday,
I can feel the time for
opening that box drawing near,
That point of decline
toward the end.
The pinprick connections
that box contains, through time and place,
Once just a collector, I have inadvertently become beholden to them, they exert an almost imperceptible, but debilitating influence on me.
Something larger is calling
and I am not sure I am ready to answer it,
From a road, to a field, and a moment, Sunda.
White is the colour of mourning in India. I had a moment with this guy in an excerpt from a bus trip. The traffic had been at a standstill for some time and so I went for a wander, to a field and two or three men sitting passing around a chillum. One of them (this guy), waved his hand across the dusty vista after I had been sitting with them for a bit and uttered Sunda (the Hindi word for beautiful). It was a peaceful immediate connection that stopped there, not needing anything more. I felt strongly he had an intrinsic understanding of the universe and life about us.
|Copyright Sunda 2022|