Less Travelled Land

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You took a ticket to Calcutta.
But you canceled a taxi to the airport.
Instead, you go to the nearby river and lit  a fire on its bank.
You're baking potato wrapped in a foil
You're watching as fire returns its share to the sky and its ashes to the earth.
You marvel at the Zen meditation of a fisherman,
who seems to have fallen asleep on the other side if the river.
But no, apparently, the miraculously surviving golden fish is tempted by a moth.
And ruined the fisherman chance for enlightenment.
So there will be no rebirth and the Buddha will wait a long time
for the release of  fisherman's body.

Poor guy, here and again you've wasted the opportunity
to touch the wisdom of the human anthill in Hindustan.
Although you will say in the words of a filmed Sikh
that India is a country of trillions of flies and incomprehensible dirt.
But for some reason the heart knows: "there is something there".
There, people rejoice in the baby. And here, for some reason, no.

Your potatoes is already baked.
There are tomatoes, salt and carafe of wine.
Your friends come to join your fiesta, which always within you.
You eat newly baked potato with salt.
You drink wine, which taste like amrita.
You listen to the grass still growing at the brink of autumn.

I used to be  the son of heavens.
I've never been the son of the Earth.
I haven't flown to Calcutta today.
I just didn't want to.
I scored for sins and redemption.
I forgot about the satori and I didn't become a saint.
Because holiness is, you know, so gloomy.
Sisyphus' work, hard work.
For what reason?

The gods need so little from us.
They want us be happy.
They don't like us disturbing them with our stupid prayers
So let's enjoy our life here and now on this very planet.

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© Copyright: Valentin Luchenko, 2021


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