“This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper”
Perching on the shore, like two birds,
strange, with stranger purposes,
they flocked together in the togetherness of
that which they call satsanga,
remember? That last strain of thread,
on which dangles the broken button?
A bridge, a causeway, a promise?
That thread, that satsanga.
The shore impregnating the waves,
with newer unseen illegitimates,
against their father Moon,
forever unachievable, distanced,
begetting bastards in the darkness of its own light.
“So,”, he strummed the strings of silence,
but like a mother putting her baby to sleep,
played legato with his agile fingers.
“Why are you always lost in thoughts?”
The world started with a chaos,
will end in the chaos.
Thoughts. Thoughts behind,
A huge sandwich with failed attempts
as juicy salami in between.
Whimpers, thoughts, chaos, whimpers.
Orchestrating in the same rhythm,
“The birds only fly”, she replied, and
took to her thoughts again.
While he, kept this secret with him,
like a doctor, who somehow knows best
how to save a life,
and just exactly how to kill one.