Guru

Oh! How you keep me waiting

for a taste of you.

Indulging in a game of hide and seek,

vaulting from wall to wall.

And finally, when I hold you by the eye,

in place of feeling triumphant,

I lay down my arms and sob.

Upon finding her lost child,

like the gentle mother would.

You smile and play the fool;

‘Am I not here now, Mother?

Why then do you moan?’

You are too sound to be true and here’s why I sob.

You are not just blood and bones,

but a vacuum, so vacantly lodged.

You are both the roaring sun and golden sand.

You are both the mirror and the mirrored.

You are plain music yet an intricate design.

You are ashes and flowers alike.

You are the vehement fire I burn to be and in.

You are where I have rested my time.

You are both words and pauses in my poetry.

You are but not only a child.

The teacher, the much-loved, you query.

Oh! Do you even now not realize?

My beloved Guru’s divine feet, to touch, I pine.

And that’s why I so tenderly cry.