A rudraksha garland, a beard
like a waterfall, and frozen lips
breathing out "Om".
We've all heard of the revered
Saint of Ashagadh,
of dung scented fields that he
calls home.
Below the cool umbrella of Neems,
disciples gather around and watch
devotion, and admire
the brightness in shut eyes. It seems
at first sight, to be
an ascension that only the purest
holy souls may acquire.
It is mysticism we cannot achieve,
a relationship we cannot forge...the inquisition,
it still persists.
It's a divinity I will not believe.
He has told us where our God resides
But we do not know
if he exists.
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