The spastic flame that dances fast: too weird to match to drum. The teary eye strays into trance as if deadened by rum. Where will the flame transport us now that smoke has made us cry? Where will the cracking sounds take us as we turn to the sky? The moon is out and casts a glow, a glow of milky white. And each dim point of starlight burns trillions of times as bright as that feeble, little campfire that rules what I now feel: the heat, the smoke, the popping sounds that now make my head reel.
The Sadhu sits upon the ghat, so free from suffering. Like butterflies in still moments with wings not fluttering. There's no living and no dying, just a rare kind of dead, in which bodies move, but minds don't, and worlds are gently tread.
A timeless time will come to be, when all is uniform. And nothing 's hot & nothing 's cold, but all is just lukewarm. So thank your lucky stars you've lived in this age of bedlam: when stars can shine and buildings rise and we've cerebellums.
I stand before the water's edge. Thwarted, I throw a stone. For I am here and you are there, and I feel all alone. I have no friendly Hanuman to form a viaduct. I gather scraps together to see what I can construct. Maybe I'll make a raft, or some rickety, old footbridge - Anything to reduce the gulf so much as a hopeful smidge.
On a bacon-scented sidewalk, an hour before the dawn, awaiting the man with a key as I make a dazed yawn. I've a vaguely swimming headache, and thoughts that fail to form. Will we have a crisp, red sunrise, and would it mean a storm? I'd remembered an old saying of red sky morning dread, but that's for sailors out at sea not landsmen missing bed.
He sat and stilled his weary mind, and his thoughts slowed their flow. Until he was a ceaseless void with nowhere left to go.
The heavy heads of lolling grain were shifting in the breeze. A harvester did chomp it down, reaping before the freeze. Now we'll stare at the naked field, feeling something 's been lost, seeing nothing but stalk stubble - stiffened and white with frost. What's culled from the harvest mind when all the fields are cleared, and dancing plants of robust grain are newly disappeared?
My walk is in the early hours, in dawn's buttery light. There's a gold glint to all that's pale, whether a wall of white or waters of a placid lake or eucalyptus trunks or on the waving Pampas grass or on the robes of monks. And by the time I've lost that light, the walking hour is done. And I'll be looking forward to when next the day is dun.
The words were whispered down the line, but changed at every turn. Some words were written down in time, but gathered up to burn. And no one knew unvarnished truth -- only some stray excerpts. They tried to cobble together the judgments of experts. But truth was not to be retrieved by way of slick guesses and in the end all they had left were their burning messes.
Words memorized rote are a meal wholly undigested, That's why memorization is utterly detested. Rote learning is, somehow, bloating and yet never filling. One takes it all in by way of monotonous drilling, but while you're still filling your cup you're already spilling. You pass your test and purge it all. It's so unfulfilling. If I may, please let me suggest that here's what you should do: get the gist, play with it, and find out what it means to you.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 