Of Circled Footsteps and Soiled Leaves

A lonely walk in yellow light, yellow soiled leaves under his feet,

misty nights with damp green shadows, dark, cold and moonlit,

hollow thoughts with heavy steps, down-headed, he again heads for nowhere,

waiting not for anything, wishing nothing, feeling nothing and missing neither,

strolling not into his past, wading not through his present, neither striding into future,

just the moment, living by it, moment by moment, here there and everywhere.

 

He looks up the way ahead – brightly lit, perfectly calm, not a soul around; he feels her,

a sharp smile and bright sparkle in the eye; she looks deep into him and stirs him,

he feels her – again, he sees her footsteps besides his, feels her warmth beside him,

she leans on his shoulder and speaks that joke in his ears,

but before she finishes it she bursts into laughter on her own, and he smiles at her.

And then next moment, she comes to him again, again leans on his shoulder,

this time she speaks nothing; just holds his arm and stays close,

he does not look at her; he knows she isn’t as well,

they walk for a while and then she leaves,

she stops for a while, looks at him, and says nothing again,

and as the moon dies in the west, she turns back and walks off, off forever.

he watches her going, looking at her back, and then as she goes beyond that turn,

she is gone, and he knows not – whether he is stranded there or beyond that, she.

 

He comes to this turn every night, and waits for a while,

he feels her beyond that turn, waits for her laughter, hears it, and moves ahead,

hope leads him but his feet don’t; did he wait at that turn he doesn’t know,

maybe he did, maybe he never, but he came to it every night,

standing at turn, he still felt her – though a bit afar; and waited for world to move,

and lessen the distance, the space, and straighten the turn.

And one night, turn straightened, and he had his eyes far beyond it now,

but her voices were none, neither her warmth, and nor she,

she had left, leaving behind circled footsteps and soiled leaves!

 

Tonight he is at the same turn, but he does not turn along it,

it has been straightened for life; and now as he wades through it,

every night, not finding anything but the same lesson,

which he learns every night, which every day makes him unlearn…

a hollow thought lying low, a hollow thought standing upright,

together fill up the vacuum, with hollowness infinite,

the more he gathers, the more he scatters, and now he knows for sure

there’s no turn now, but he is stranded there forever!