As evening nears, the sky is almost white,
and stark against its light there stand the trees,
black guardians, still, beside the growing night.
At noon they stood quite brown, beneath the winter freeze,
with green moss spread like dripping sap or dew
passionless against each sturdy base. I see the few
beyond my window motionless, as though in awe
and reverence before the coming of a thaw.
The night is almost here. The trees, like scrawls of charcoal drawn,
thrust up toward heaven, where white meets black,
and I have a sense of ages past and gone,
like runners pacing round a cinder track.
So it is with age. The early years are yellow, green, and brown,
with sunlight casting warmth and light
as though it were a gallant cloak,
and later, as though enraptured by the starkness
of the tall black oak,
the gamboling shadows faint and fade
upon the stillness of the ground.
Then we are left alone with black and white.
The vibrant arc of merriment is gone and done,
and, silhouetted from within, through an awestruck hour
before a winter night,
we count our sins and blessings one by one.
Contemplation is a medium to transmigrate me from
conscious to the subconscious state of mind.
My half-closed eyes in a meditative stance
looking through the distant spaces of emptiness
trespassing into the far far away
outer edges of time,
the timeless abodes of Gods.
Hidden memories from the
inner core of the subconscious state
are projecting on the mind screen
the bygone life of my
childhood, youth and middle age.
At the outer edges of time
in the distant spaces of emptiness
I had the glimpses of Shiva
in the contemplative stance
sitting with crossed legs
and half-closed eyes
looking into himself.
What was Shiva contemplating?
He might have glanced at this mortal
traversing the outskirts of Heaven.
Shiva, the Lord of "Laya," the last of the
dealing with the demise of the universal creation.
Probably he is checking out
the strayed soul of mine.
Shiva is Bhola Shankar--ever compassionate God
I pray thee.
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