The Dreamer

You seem like a child
with your eyes of the morning sun
and your laughter of the summer rain

You tell me you have come from faroff places
where desire has fallen away
like the bark of the cinnamon tree
which now comes in search of me
with its fragrance,
staining my page
colouring my eyes
permeating my skin.

Why does my heart with its color of Krishna's body
and the throat of Shiva
look for more grownup desires
and their attendant questions?

This body-temple which I have inhabited
for ten thousand years and more
now whispers strange things
in my ear.
It tells me of mountains
beyond the ones I have seen
It tells me of underground rivers
that course beneath my feet
and meet with the rivers
of the sky when I sleep.

Who can show me the form of
the thousand-petalled lotus?
Who can take me to the place
where the sun gently smiles
at our human and inhuman follies?
Who dreams me in her sleep, and
forgets me in his wakefulness?