Jessica and the Pilgrim Were there Basking under the shade of a grove.
‘In the beginning, who required all this ? Pleasure and the displeasure In the nights of rummaging Fingers and movements. Flurrying with All formations
Was not the toil sufficient for a day to find our worth Tilling the soil with worms Sheltering in their homes;
Was it God? Who made our images Of which we are discontented Now, and then and often and ever, and now trying to clone Aping the creation.?
The poor sea Bellows with volcanoes And earth quakes. In the labour of creating islands; Designing new habitats For our displeasures.’
He paused.
‘Pilgrim!’
She stopped him.
‘You need.’
‘What?’
‘Water of a tender coconut.’
‘Why?’
‘It teaches.’
He watched.
‘Cooling and Saving your Cool’
She went And brought.
After drinking He realized .
‘ I agree Nothing is Created for Total denial or Total acceptance.’
‘Can you row?’ Jessica asked the pilgrim her head resting on arms folded back, Her eyes fixed on grey sky as The temple backyard slides down the Marbled steps kissing the stream run, rosy feet splashing water; her hip and the neck loving the curvy bend of steps;
Small boats budge distantly Noticing a little boat’s Arrest on a long purple pole Tied by a dirty rope tipping up and down At ebb’s force. The pale young moon Paying a view of an insipid flicker.
‘Can you?’
‘Yes! I can; Though I am not a pilgrim’
‘A pilgrim need not know How to row a boat?’
Her astute eyes grasped The point.
As he followed Her to enter the boat
She said,
‘I am the stream Rowing a boat.’
The oars tore the water Making waves.
‘No’
‘Then?’
‘You are a river; I am a boat’
A wave flipped.
‘Every river Runs to surrender’
‘Yes’
A brief silence.
‘But no boat....’
‘No. All boats chase'
'Timely.'
A Fish jumped.
‘Think of The end of Any river.’
The oars went Idle.
The wind and The waves and The stand still Boat
Everything Listened to Her breathing
He needed To drink The tears
But… Impossible. How much.. How much..
The stream goes On and on To meet A river of no time. So much …
You never taught me mother, how to be hard and stony, Over others pains and tears You never taught me to rest at ease And find numbering comforts to increase.
You never taught me to hang after others And how to exploit the toils of brothers;
You never taught me how to linger For anything which could be won with our finger.
You never taught me to sell self-respect For any craving to buy some prospect;
Mother, you never taught me to go low When all demanded a hung down show
You never taught me to boast and pose While I was selling sweat for buying rose
Mother you never taught me to live in dream And you claiming to make a cake first and then cream
You never taught me human life is more than a speck No other power can save our ship from wreck
You never taught me to grudge and make revenge With any cause which came across to avenge
You never taught me to waive my concern and care For any dependant demanded my dare.
Mother you never taught me to live Leaving the show with out something to give
‘We gather in and Out collecting Stones to Throw over Weighing right And wrong In our globe Of glass houses.
Who lacks truth? May be you Might be the Other. But not me Who makes guesses? Might be you May be the other. Sure, Not me, Who is irate? Must be you Or the other Certain Not me, Who is dupe, And foul, and fake? Not me, Wait, Well, maybe Might be a little."
But throw your Stones Not on me ; Better bombard All.
The Pilgrim with downy eyes Waiting outer temple door Lifted his eyes. A jingle caused. It’s Jessica’s anklet singing. A glow seeping From her Gleeful eyes Tapped his gloomy indoors.
‘Waiting?’ He nodded.
‘For whom?’ He sighed.
She knew it was now For the wine mouthed Stephanie; With a sad smile she reminded.
‘You are a pilgrim. You should not stay.’
‘After swimming many Seas of eyes I await; My east is reached.’
In Stephanie’s skies Sun is dead.
No, truth needs to be Known not told.
She entered sighing into The temple with Oil in her cask.
The inner lamps Sent their rays One after another To reach the pilgrim.