My small world <br />lies suspended between <br />the four walls of your house. <br />There is no entry sign, <br />yet my life, leashed to it, <br />keeps moving endless <br />round and round. <br /> <br />From wherever I start <br />I reach your house, <br />sure as death, <br />as though all roads lead <br />to this single destination. <br /> <br />It's easy to find it - <br />on the front lawn <br />winter sleeps at noon <br />as the spotless day <br />dries in the sun <br />like your cast-off sari. <br />Your pet clouds lounge <br />high up on the roof. <br /> <br />In the night, <br />the house is snow-clad <br />in mysteries. <br />Moonlight peeps out <br />through the open window, <br />and I know <br />when the other window opens, <br />there will be sunshine. <br /> <br />From my lookout <br />I fix my eyes on the house <br />and invoke you <br />in the ultimate measure <br />of my meditation. <br />My prayers stop at the edges <br />of your unmade bed, <br />wet memories overflow my senses; <br />a taste of the sea assails me; <br />my consciousness becomes a dream <br />and loses all its reason. <br /> <br />I see blazing heaps of sand, <br />and your body seething <br />in the sultry summer heat, <br />I see a storm gather <br />and pass over the desert, <br />and then I see <br />your disheveled sari <br />lying forlorn <br />along your undulating shores. <br /> <br />I see you through my many <br />states and aberrations - <br />you are the sum total <br />of my entire life, <br />its beginning, middle, and end; <br />the three measures of time <br />and the four directions; <br />and five elements, the six seasons, <br />and the seven heavens; <br />the ten misfortunes <br />and the fourteen worlds. <br /> <br />Your house is all I have, <br />moveable or immoveable, <br />and I know I am destined, <br />like an accursed soul, <br />to circle it round and round <br />now and forever.<br /><br />Jagannath Prasad Das<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-world-164/
