Like the surface of the moon
marked with its shadows
the hollow of the empty cup
gleamed through rings of debris
of a flavourful brew
Like the women of Bengal
I sewed stitch by stitch
collecting layers worn
Of years studied
under the shadow of this light,
Ruching, puckering, quilting
that canvas of emotions
that expression defies.
There is no meaning for some things
But without this anchor
the mind wanders in search
Wandering through the spirits
wandering through the world
Like a mendicant begs his alms
Experience begs meaning
It has to make some sense doesn't it?
marked with its shadows
the hollow of the empty cup
gleamed through rings of debris
of a flavourful brew
Like the women of Bengal
I sewed stitch by stitch
collecting layers worn
Of years studied
under the shadow of this light,
Ruching, puckering, quilting
that canvas of emotions
that expression defies.
There is no meaning for some things
But without this anchor
the mind wanders in search
Wandering through the spirits
wandering through the world
Like a mendicant begs his alms
Experience begs meaning
It has to make some sense doesn't it?
