While my Flute Silently Weeps
November 10th, 2009 | 
Author: Today, I got up a bit early-not very early as we use to in Puttaparti–and wrote some words that just flowed. After a long gap of time, I was able to think about Swāmi in a manner that did not sound like complaining. (!)
So, I thought to write this poem and share it with you all.
While my Flute Silently Weeps
While my flute silently weeps
On those mountain peaks of Kailāś sits my master. He is Bholānāth–having naive demeanor–and is pleased with little efforts of his children.
Being Naṭrāj–the king of dancers–he knows how a baby fumbles as it starts walking on its spiritual journey before it grows apt in those rhythmic movements.
He’s patient and calm and awaits the return of the natives to their residence of ageless boundaries.
My tent is at the foot of the mountain. Burdened by my worldly belongings and overawed by the terrain of my upward journey, I struggle to proceed.
I draw a deep breath and blow my bamboo flute. The air carries the praying notes of my instrument. I imagine my master throwing a subdued smile while my flute silently weeps.
My mind tries to picture the presence of my master; in vain. It needs to realize its limitations. My soul pines for the flood of that joyous rendezvous where the consciousness leaves the clutches open to allow a tiny stream merge in the ocean; for, an entity is pleasure but entirety is bliss.
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