• qaynaat 72w


    One thousand times, I take his name
    I'm in love, it is not hard to tell
    I crinkle, breaking into sprigs,
    although my spine is bent

    I am like the mouth of the fiddlehead fern
    My tongue is curled inwards
    making no sound, and going in no direction,
    but a breaking of green gives up my secret.

    O' Sakhyamuni, I am really trying
    but I cannot sleep all night
    Listening to the breeze beating in the peach blossom,
    I dream of the hearth of his hands

    Holding my body- its thick skin
    My body beating
    in its thick skin- glimmering
    I- reaching him like a flame.

    O' Sakhyamuni, it is not passion
    My heart weeps for him,
    He is its beating- it is love.
    Says Sakhyamuni, it is with your thoughts

    you learn him- look at this clock
    that strikes 12 midnight- its needles are made
    from the yellow bamboo bush that grows
    beside the clement stream, that will really grow

    into a deep forest by a year
    if you let it flow.

    - Sanjukta.