Twenty-one years now, under candlelight, to tabla I write. Sometimes during those past lines one must feel empty to relocate the mind. Realign the ambiguous disease to please the soul inside the heart. Not only soul but system, of thought overshadowed a conspicuous dot. That beats. And beats. We only wish it were an organ and discard melody as mere percussion. That beats. And beats. Even tablas have tone.
Twenty-one years now, life is but a dream. Created by life and dreampt by particles, of which love to laugh. Particles of energy only get transferred, unscathed. But nature? It is human nature to destroy that nature, only the word in every sense of itself. Five senses and the sixth comes out in three. Eyes see the skin, which feels the rhythm of the heart. That beats. And beats. If we tasted how we smell, nature would make sense. But not in us.
Twenty-one years now, and I found number six. It was hidden under a cloth, in the skin of a beggar, with a child. A child who's mother took it's finger to sing her the economic solution for the outcast. "But they have all, they are fixed! So why not find a little number six?" But it is hidden, under rocks that are too big, under chemicals and clearcut twigs. By elements that make one so painfully sick, the six is nearly gone. So nature begs and nature buys, nature takes fingers, and nature steals eyes. From both sides of the coin which helps one share and dream. That reciprocates with peace, or disintegrates disease.
Twenty-one now, reality becomes less of a verb, and a noun for those who feel it and a word for those with five.
03 November 2005
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