“The darkness declares the glory of light.”
— T. S. Eliot
Do not close the door,
even as evening falls.
The clouds will break—
fierce rain is on its way;
even the mountains will be drenched
in the pale lamps of twilight.
Somewhere beneath the banyan’s shadow
birds rehearse their quiet hymns;
the upstream river never returns home.
A crow wears its patient mask,
a peacock breaks into sudden dance—
in the night of shadows
illusion scatters its subtle snares.
On the bare branch of a leafless tree
lingers the scent of roses;
upon mountain stones
the waterfall sketches its sound,
calling endlessly from afar.
Across the settlements
darkness gathers in layered clouds;
on the path back to the nest
words lose their direction.
And the stars of heaven
bloom like silent lotuses
upon the cold black shawl of night.
