Scorched Earth
Healing all wounds
Into the fiery past we go,
where smoldering whispers call out to centuries-old.
Mishaps and ancestral plunders
burning villages to the ground.
The embers still glow
with burn marks on the coming children’s voices.
Unable to sing.
Where I am,
is where I was.
Forgotten
how to Be.
Where I am heading,
is where I reside.
Absent of thought,
that may be.
Pondering
or Being.
What may
or may not be.
With you,
without me.
With me,
no longer attached to them.
I am
what It Is.
It Is
what I Am.
Returning to the scorched earthen fields
ancestral reminder of forbidden eaten fruits.
Hence, the bloodshed fills the air with
past, present, and future storms.
Rum, pum, pum, goes the beaten drum.
Calling on healing memories of ancient songs.
Enters the pink dress and innocence,
dancing to the angelic throng.
The spinning of vortices
brings sense to the non-sensical songs.
Brain short-circuitry
heart bleeding — blending all to ease.
Where I am,
is where I was.
Forgotten
how to Be.
Where I am heading,
is where I reside.
Absent of thought,
that may be.
Pondering
or Being.
What may
or may not be.
With you,
without me.
With me,
no longer attached to them.
I am
what It Is.
It Is,
what I Am.
~Ani Po
Asked to speak directly to the inner demons, choosing instead to go to the battlefields where the answers lay. Offering a glimpse of demonic past, healing for the coming generations. Thank you Paroma Sen, for this opportunity to share.
