Friday, December 9
A million candles burned in the light of collective faith.
A ceremony to mark the arrival of a person centuries ago.
The light washed every one in sight.
It was a sight.
So many photographs.
What are you going to do with them, traveller?
How will you use them,
when no one but you can see them?
I know, you know, I know,
they live in your mind.
You know, I know, you know
your mind has memories
and place for other bric a brac too.
How will you use these frozen memories?
You tell me, you can see it clearly,
I know I've heard it before,
I can see it clearly too,
that little village of seven mud huts
you stayed at the feet of,
seven years ago, one dark cold night.
That old woman came shouting
and some others,
for drinking water from their well.
They walked endless miles in the hot desert sun to fill it.
You drank generously
and your ablutions were normal, so urban
it took four mugs to rinse your teeth.
her lament was full of pain
and yet, without tears.
I can see the photograph clearly.
You know, I can see it too.
I know you know it.
And how is it
that while asking you my questions,
I arrive at my answers?
This night is all mine,
as I belong wholly to it.
Munchkins have come alive.
I've got some new music. Thank you, Bean.