Ahimsa
The
equivocating
autumnal
sky
of
grey and white cloud
and
intermittent
mild
sunshine
through
pointillist
drops
of rain
Attends
the sibyl
who,
mountain-like,
creates
her
own inner weather
Which
now is bathed
in a
radiance of pink
like
the Himalayan balsam
in
the Valley of Flowers.
Through
tresses silken
as
the weeping breeze
the
sibyl speaks:
“They
say that we
would
be lucky to see
nine
hundred and thirty
full
moons in a lifetime;
“Yet
is this all in vain
if
ye shed one drop
of
an animal’s blood
wantonly
and cruelly
for
all is of one Blood
and
all pain is one Pain,
ye
of the briefest spring!”
Beneath
a sky grown ashen
the
message glows
pearly
clear:
yet,
few men
(and
women too, it would seem)
choose
to hear.
~ Vasumathi Krishnasami, Bangalore.
White
Bird Flying
Beaded
lines
of
scarlet, gold and green
artificial,
brightly seductive,
shimmer
static in the lallation
of a
lambent wave,
unlike
tongues of fire.
So
many, at dusk
so
many since the dawn
of
all of us,
cradled
in a bed of flowers,
clay
within the clay—
So
many float
upon the quiet dark waters:
flames
that set forth to meet—
in that
loosener of knots
and
thief of scarves,
a
casual wind–
the
kiss of death.
So
many lives
brief
as the blink
of a
tropical twilight,
not
knowing quite
what
purpose
we
might have served–
save
that something magical
has
been glimpsed for a moment:
A white
bird flying
against
a shroud
of
deep, dark blue-grey
stormcloud
~ Vasumathi Krishnasami