The White Stick

Like a bright pink bougainvillea flower,
Held delicately in your palm,
If each step were to become a slow dance,
The crow would sound sweet,
The asphalt road would come alive,
And in those moments of self doubt,
You could sit on a milestone,
And converse with the shy breeze.

She won’t discuss petty politics,
The rising inflation or any religious agenda,
She won’t predict your future,
Or offer to save you from your fate,
She’ll insist, you travel with the wind,
It’s favourable, she’ll tell you,
For those who have travelled before you,
Are now mindless.
The body can’t function without the mind,
You’ll argue.

She'll smile and say,
Breath is the life force that sustains the body,
Mind simply wields an illusion of control,
Since, you never let go of fear,
You couldn’t learn to flow,
The mind is now a stagnant pond,
Where the tadpoles of anxiety grow.

Come, hold my hand and I’ll walk you through,
The beautiful scenery and the rough terrain all the same,
Till you come to see that the forces of nature are cyclic,
You sleep, you rise, love, despise,
Love briefly and the same violence repeats.

The mind is blind,
And consciousness, the white stick,
That guides the blind man through the crowded streets,
Travel with me and you’ll be able to see,
There is someone in there,
Besides you,
Who knows, let’s go meet him.