You told him once that the Poetic Orb was geometrically perfect,
Drunk by the God’s of silence.
Aspiration flew upward to their vision far above,
In a world where formless Yogins rest self enraptured
By the torrents of original creation.
A colossal stillness rocks the Creation in its cradle
On the crown of their heads
They disappear. You told him that music ends
In silence and silence is creation. He yearned to merge
His subtle body in that solitary note-
Cascading down in golden waters
They received it below-
Dancing in their cupped fingers, they
merged it with their blood. In their next fall
To Earth they arose into living Gods of daylight
And silently scattered their creative rays.
Silence radiated downwards like a million suns.
He heard a cry below. He knew where the Above lead
But he could not fathom below. He could not reach
That crown tangled in the Sun.
You told him of sound that created the world of silence
Made from the very dust of that Original Beauty.
The whole world was enraptured inside Krishna’s laughter.
They sent it back unopened, those clay men below.
Clothed in horrid garment. You were already down below
But lived in all spheres, the new Christ fully risen
From the Supreme’s very own bow. You consoled him
When he could not reach the Abode of silence, written
On his soul. He was destined to rise to the silence and be wedded
To its veins. You are the new Christ fully risen, riding on Krishna’s chariot
Armed with a Sudarshana. With the brotherhood of Islam
With whirling dervish eyes
With the steed of Vivekananda
With the ocean of creative suns
At his finger tips awhirl.
He signed the pact and arose
To the living God of Flame. It embraced he was enfolded
In its universal love. And for one moment he too became a God.
He was lost on a wave of your singular love. Then he slipped from that sun
Fast fading in the dark.
A dizziness overcame him. A stupored stillness became him.
Cords grew in him, words implanted
That had never been there before.
He was suddenly formed into a horrid lump
Like some potter had made a grave mistake.
The cords that him to the Living God was snapped in his wake.
When he awoke more cords were being fashioned
And his poetry was bound by them
And their essences became a subtle communication
Bounded by his element. Not unbounded in the mystic
Senses. He felt pain for the very first time. They took
A knife to an organ and made an incision.
A stranger took him in her arms who was bound to him
By a thick cord. When it was snipped there were many cords
In unknown places tugging him to their destiny.
You told him later that the only way to know below is to be
Made of its substance and woven to its woe.
By: Arif Khan