Dear James,

Dear James,

The man who hears the story of them all.
poetic, tragic, comic and brawl.
I bring you another recall,
in a rhyme as lost and floating
as the soul truly is when searching.
Although we disillusioned, believe it is fixed.

On a voyage to the inners,
a long lost lover returned into the light and life of the Chamki.
A story found its turn again, a bend and a loop.
A heart once kindled, is twice kindled.
Hushed secrets revealed how one twists sweet grapes into sour.
A heart now hangs on hope as vast and generic as the universe's flower.
But the heart is also a star moving ahead yet settled,
just like the earth is suspended among stars plenty-petaled,
but every earth has it own coat of clouds.

Such is the day of a life lived without fear.
Fear, a funny thing, it tried to mingle,
poke into place and crush hope and warmth
only to clutch and strangle.
But that which is a shadow,
needs something to fall on,
else it falls forever, endlessly into oblivion.

This silken coat of self love and respect of the temple one is,
is the truth of all love. Love begins here and emanates to the other,
absorbing further love and learning.

One has learned, hard and beaten,
to take the good and walk on.
There are no decisions.
None that we made,
None that are to be made.
Life is and will always be the constant combustion of one's fire.
Until the flame stands tall,
let the shadow of fear be small.

(And in this ordinariness of life
let the smile of a rose
teach you to spread your fragrance
without the fear of wilting.)

In all poetic freedom,
let down the brackets,
take the impulses from the passionate thing called life
you lead,
to make tiny peaces of heart, or art.
An intensity, that comes to you,
with it's own strength to handle.
Now, take down your pragmatic glasses,
let go of your brackets
and allow the sound of the storm that is me permeate you.

Chamko Rani.