Across the plain where
dust moves like a little
creature running from itself,
there is a room in the palace
where I lie down on
the soft carpet.

I listen to Sri Sattru playing
an evening Raga on his tablas.
His swift hands and dancing
fingers reflect the mystery
of this thingamajig I call myself.

I hear the rhythm of
the king’s feet dancing
on the tile floor
in the next room.

Outside the rain arrives.
Umbrellas spin like Yantras
floating above the pavement.

A child’s voice rises through the rain.
“All is well,” he says.
“In the spaciousness of your heart
there is a long and infinite well
where water rises.

It rises like the morning
when singing, calling
morning birds swell into the
calm center of your troubled
mind, swathed in delusion.”

You are free, my friend.
Now go.