A heart can be light as a cloud
in a dumping ground.
Is a sentient being born with privileges
or a speck blown by a whirlwind into existence?
A hermit drank the water of the melting snow
at a peak he had trekked a thousand miles to.
Is his a lonely heart
that has tasted bitterness of humanity,
that has bowed off the stage
through an exit of obscurity,
or a shining jewel, polished off the dirt,
that answers his every whim,
quenches his every thirst,
illuminates his dark and solitary path?
Could he in his state of bliss
tell me why I set foot on this earth in the first place
why my heart sometime blows up a hot air bloom,
sometimes bursts like the Shuttle burning out in the sky?
His light steps comes in tandem with his telling beads.
Are they the echoes of the celestial dance
or an anesthesia of the anguish that bothered him much?
Afternoon, December 30, 201