There is a space
between society and individual.
Some call it solitude.
A few address it as loneliness.
For a philosopher it was
occupied by ‘wild beasts’.
True.
For inside the grey area
there’s the forest-
thick, dark and private.
Waters gurgle, and
fishes wade to the peacock’s cry
at dawn.
The lioness stretches, after
her cubs are suckled and
let off into the endless secrets
of the wild.
The jungle fowl dashes by the trumpeting elephant.
The trees see through monkeys’ eyes.
Then there are the deer,
which races past my pensive thoughts.
As I step into the crowds,
an eerie song lingers
in the breeze.
In some tender places of heart
the music strikes a chord.
All that I remember
as I brave the insult
of the tamed culture
is the dance of the rain drops
on the blooming buds.
