Two blue butterflies - a short story

Two blue butterflies - a short story. (Adults only.) -3rd one on this prompt.

They had never met but there was a kind of electricity between the two of them that left him frothing at the mouth, metaphorically speaking, and her weak at the knees. The power of Second Life can only be known by those who have experienced it. Whenever they met their avatars immediately reached out for each other and could not stop making love frantically to each other whether in the galaxies or on earth or on a beach or in the safety of one of their houses. It was strange, it was uncanny and it was unbelievable.

Though on Second Life she was so bold with him in life she was rather innocent. He led her further and further into the knowledge of and exploration of her own sexuality. It exhilarated her as for the first time as a woman she was becoming fully aware of herself and her body. It gave her newfound confidence that showed in her face and walk, in the sway of her hips, when she went for work. One day he taught her how to locate her clitoris and she was astounded as for so many years she had heard of its existence but had not connected it with reality. She was shy, bashful, and even silent but at the same time, her interest peaked. She called him Osho in her mind and her tantric sex-and-love guru, smiling secretly to herself.

Then came the pandemic. And the tragedy. He fell sick. She felt frantic but could not go to him as he was quarantined. She finally got the shocking news one day that he had died. She logged into Second Life and sent him a hi but there was no reply, naturally. She wept and wept.

That night she had a strange dream. She was in Second Life, nude, and in a forest calling out his name. She called again and again, desperate to locate him. They had loved each other deeply, she knew now, it had not just been sex.

She was about to give up and tired she lay down on the soft green grass, in a clearing in the forest in one of their settings. She slept. When she woke it was afternoon and the glade was full of flowers and butterflies. A blue one came and sat on her thigh. She wondered why. To her surprise, it crawled to the labia of her genitalia and suddenly with a short flight alighted on them. The butterfly's proboscis was searching, she understood, for her clitoris.

In her state of semi-sleep and semi-wakefulness, in the forest, in the glade, she opened her legs and thighs fully wide welcomingly and let it drink of the nectar of the black rose between her legs, till she was filled with a strange nameless ecstasy.

"Osho, is that you?", she heard herself mutter.

There was no answer. Butterflies don't reply in human language, after all.

She woke up with a very high fever. She did not have to check to know that she had got it too. The damned illness, Soon she would also die and join him in that glade in the forest at noon and proboscis to proboscis they would drink nectar from each other and the many different kinds of flowers there around them, again, but this time as two blue butterflies,

Day 18 NAPOWRIMO Prompt April 18 Blue Butterfly Day

Blue Morpho

Blue lightning

edged with black thunder

in "spring"

you fly

free

always drinking

from the "flower"

of your choice

You crossed my path

the other day

I'm going through changes

so is the world

your wings fluttering

made this change we see today

no one saw the connection

except the ones

who know

"wheels" exist

within

wheels, without wheels

in life's sway

I've seen your armies

when you were only plant-chomping caterpillars

in the "mire" or on some trees

I've seen your swarms

My kaleidoscope

was no match for yours, in plural

You are angels

sent 'gold-tinted' 'sky-flakes'

of my loved ones

who went up

the stairway to heaven

rare and common

symbol of resurrection

and make chaste sex and love

with the man in the woman

and the woman keeping him in

in the blood of Eden

in the gardens of Eden

I see you always

light-hearted

care-free

happy

flitting

fluttering

soaring

symbol of soul and immortality

linked to the sun and hope

and spiritual ascent

linked to the light

as you are seen in the day-time

alone or in kaleidoscopes

You are me

I am you

And together

we always

overcome

death's dew

though it besmirches

the flowers

we try to drink from

we purify

the nectar

and live

ever young

fresh

and new.

TSL NAPOWRIMO Prompt 18 given by Gauri Dixit



It is April, the blue butterfly is here. So is the spring. What more do we need in order to celebrate the blue butterfly day? Love this poem by Robert Frost

Blue-Butterfly Day
by Robert Frost

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.

But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.

The prompt today is to write a poem about the blue butterfly in the picture and include at least 5 elements/objects /words from Frost's poem ( spring, mire, flurry, flower, wheels, wind, sky-flakes, wing ). And if you can write a lyrical poem, nothing like it.

Photograph taken by Gauri Dixit and prompt also by her.

TSL PROMPT Day 17 NAPOWRIMO Forgiveness

Forgiveness

I left her
though she loved me
I wonder should I call?

She hurt me
though I loved her
So love became our downfall

Love is for to give it your all
Love is not for to get it all
Who said all this, after all?
Forgive, forget, but never make that call.

Forgiveness - 2

The love of God forgives
but not the love of man.

The love of God forgets
but not the love of woman.

Every man harsh as sandpaper
Every woman the memory of the elephant

Forgiving and forgetting?
Only children can,

though it doesn't mean they always must.

NAPOWRIMO 16, THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY TSL PROMPT based on the Track List of Sufjan Stevens latest album "Aporia"

A LOVE SONG

1. Aporia

What is this strange hiatus
this unexpected aporia
that has come upon us;
me here, you there
with no clarity
about when we shall meet again
a smaller story
in the bigger one
across the globe
of people together
or separated
dying alone
or living
whatever their age
or colour
creed, gender, caste, religion, politics?
It could presage a fresh start
unheeded
but we can heed it

2. Ousia

Yes, we are now one essence
one substance
as the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
though sundered by time and space;
this cannot dissipate

3. What it takes

is
eros
philia
storge
agape

What it takes
is faith
hope
caritas

What it takes is love
compassion
mercy forgiveness

What it takes is ousia
born of two becoming one

4. Agathon

I am the one
whose poems
on Revolution, Sakhi, and many other sequences
are not remembered
but my name is
and you are the one
who inspired me
so my name lives,
if not my poems

5. Raymond Scott

Another obscure artist
How we artists struggled
and if not for our women
who hurt us or loved us
into creating
would we have existed?
Would we not have merely exited?

6. Glorious you

Glorious you
unclothed
lily of the field
my rose of Sharon
when the light caught your hair
and your laugh pealed
or your eyes smiled
when your breasts were revealed
when you and I were shy
and even now in the middle of our sojourn
glorious soul
glorious you
No one to compare with you
Anna, no one nigh.

7. Lydian ring

The ring tested me
and it tested you
I failed
You won
The crown belongs to you.
Let me now creep in
to heaven under your wing
Be my St Lucy
my Beatrice anew
and make me hope for Home

8. Climb the mountain

We have not come to Sinai
but to a better mountain
on the  top of which dwells
on the top of which dwells
on the top of which dwells...

9. The Red Desert

That is me
I am in it
I weep, holding you
but you are not here
I am not weeping for us
You know it
I am weeping for India
I am weeping as I don't have a gun
I am weeping for Anand
I am weeping, missing your bosom
& that I do not have an army
I would kill all these bastards
Bury their bloody, fucking, bodies in this red desert

10. Matronymic

You are my replacement
for my mother
my Rebecca
but see, my love,
the world has crumbled
into dead bodies;
the sand
of disease
piles them up around us
and now neither any Matronymic
or Patronymic
holds anyone up
except us
as we are made of steel
We are lovers and lovers
are survivors

11 Disinheritance

This is our land
We have only a disinheritance
We are Christians
We are not considered
first-class citizens
in recent times
yet we are happy
as we come to save and not to be saved


12. Palinode

I could unsay that
about the dead bodies
and say we are a great nation
but we are not
We have to look after ourselves, now
not care for this nation gone to the dogs
and it is a matter to be bemoaned

13. Determined outcome/ Misology

Love
let us take wings
and not let fate
or the concept of the nation
or fascism
or casteism
or Hindutva
or class
or gender
or virus or pandemic
or poverty
or hunger
or famine
or death
or MISOLOGY
in things like Islamophobia
defeat us
We will reach
the determined outcome

We will reach Ataraxia!
We will reach Eudaimonia!
We will reach the unlimited!

Our children will be warriors
defeat the runaround
bring about the afterworld alliance of conciliation
Every one of them will be a backhanded cloud
Captain Praxis, man or woman or having autism
We are the army, the fire grows in our eyes
You and me and our children, love
"We're gonna raze, raze the prisons to the ground!"

Napowrimo 13 Elizabeth and Darcy (the untold story of how she stole his heart)

Elizabeth and Darcy (the untold story of how she stole his heart)

Now that I am old I can tell you the true story
Like Kate Winslett did in that movie
That came later, much after my time
On how her ship was sunk
And all she was left with was a stone
When Wickham was talking I was looking at his ruffles
They were more in number than Mr. Bingley's
I don't like men whose names end in hams or start with Binges
By the way, do you?
It's so much more romantic if they end with sea
As in you know who's does.
My smile grew wider though he was such a proud oaf
Seeing how his wristwatch perfectly mantled o'er his wrist
And his pocket-handkerchief peek(p)ed out of his pocket
So white, so delicious, like a little white mouse-head
His breeches were like the arches of some churches
So stylish, I mean; don't get me wrong, he wasn't bow-legged
And his shirt, coat, and weskit were all impeccable
Like the sun and the rain on a picnic hospitable
In a cummerbund or bow-tie, he'd still be resplendent
His biceps would win any battle of the bulge
And his grounds and mansion were ideally large
Fully to my taste
How could I get off the barge?
Barge, what barge, you may be thinking?
Has she had one too many of the large?
No, I am just being metaphoric
Didn't Raleigh and another Elizabeth sail in a barge?
Suffice it to say, soon I found him unbend
In my mind's eye, all prejudice spent
One day - not written off in the book-
When no one was looking I kissed his pride
and whispered in his ear
Darcy, my dear
Tell no one, but your name ending with 'sea'
has quite clinched it for me
Poor Lydia and Jane can have their hams and binges
I choose you, if you'll have me, I'm thine
Taken aback by my passionate kiss
He quickly rallied
and - not written in the book -
put his hand
(this I blushingly confess)
in my bosom
This did my prejudice entire
take away, if any was left.
He knew how to steal my
shame-faced mien away
to a bolder glance, to his unquestioned sway
while I stole his millions and his nights
(This will, I thought, thrilled, also put paid to Mr. Collins)
that day, happy, as I wanted badly
to know where his hand would go next if left to stray!

Not-a-triolet - a savage deconstruction

A crazy form called triolet -

Its name sounds a lot like toilet -

is a cheat. You write five lines

and three of them you cut and paste

to say you wrote an eight-line poem!

Then you pat yourself on the back

as if you did something great

after filling in the rhyme with words like marmoset

or worse still, ones like flibbertigibbet! 

Theft in the Time of Corona

Theft in the Time of Corona - with Aakriti Kuntal (thanks)

Helpless in the tide from
the oceans of my mind
where the homeless trudge
back to nowhere, trepanned
the blood roaring in my ears

The waves wash up the bodies of the children, tattooed
By death

I steal
away from the images
crowding
inside
to resemble
the living dead

The river, at another bend
grows drinkable
and swallows swoop
on the red sunset
to peck out its heart
as if echoing the dreams
and cries of the mute
who will never know, now
crisis again
resting in the arms of the ones
who went on ahead
have permanently slept
free of the scouring dis-ease
of life.

My mind
of jungled Apolemia too
longs, not for peace but rest.

My Poem Black Dove translated into Italian by Santa Vetturi

‎Santa Vetturi‎ द्वारा Let's Hug The World With Poetry

21 मार्च को 1:04 अपराह्न बजे

Ricevo questa prosa poetica dal dottor Ampat Koshy, che lavora presso l'Università di Jazan, in Arabia Saudita, mentre la sua famiglia è rimasta nella città d'origine, Bangalore, in India.

HOPE

Someone working abroad worried about his wife and children waiting for him.
Back home in another country finds hope coming in through the window
Smiling as a gentle breeze and forgets temporarily himself and his sorrows.
Outside, but, Covid-19 hunts and hope as a black dove flies about in the sky.

SPERANZA

Qualcuno che lavora all'estero è in ansia per la moglie e i figli che lo aspettano.
Con il pensiero a casa, in un altro paese sente la speranza entrare attraverso la finestra
sorridendo come una leggera brezza e dimentica temporaneamente se stesso e i suoi dolori. Fuori, però,
il Covid 19 va a caccia e la speranza come una colomba nera
vola nel cielo.

Napowrimo 13 April 13 The day I stole Santosh Bakaya away ( "Unbeknownst to her she was stolen, and how")

I have met them at the close of day
coming home from their work
looking tired, and wanted to say
Hey, lovelies, look at me

and put a smile on your face
You look enchanting e'en more
When tired at the end of the day
or sprouting at the gates

like forlorn, desolate lilies
waiting for the husband, daughter or son
to come back to make life less dull
and bring in some end-of-day cheer

I had stolen many of their hearts
I had stolen a Malayalam textbook
I had stolen my father's stamp album once
I am quite an accomplished thief

But all agree on such a dismal, dark day
I stole Santosh Bakaya away
to the Lidder to live in two small white cottages or tents
for we had two novels to write and then read

out to each other
on the banks of the river Lidder
I stole her off all the way to Kashmir
Where Father Time, fairyland-like, stands still

I stole her - unbeknownst to her - quite away
I stole her clean away
I stole her clear away
I stole her, soft and quick, away

The temperature might have dropped in the mouth
of the instrument that measured it that day
But not a care had I in the world
as I had stolen Santosh away

All the way to the Lidder
to read her novel, and write
mine and read it to her
in wit, humour and dazzling wordplay

It was winter when we got there
spring went by and summer
and then came autumn
and we were still

scribbling madly away
For when two mad people start writing
they never stop for a day
and the pages keep up piling

and the novels getting longer
day by night by day
night by day by night
day by night by day

We may never finish these novels
but we read it out each day
at the end of it to each other
on the banks of the Lidder, I say!

I have hardly seen her since here
except when we emerge
each evening to read them out
our novels and then retreat

I have met them at the close of day
My characters and her characters
Willy-nilly, mixing and talking
at the end of each such day!

By the side of the river
with the backdrop of lush green mountains
under clear blue skies
with the sounds of the rushing foaming swirling white waters

In a place called Pahalgam
in Jammu and Kashmir
where the peace is unbroken
in a 'novel' lockdown.

They come out from two small white cottages or tents
and dance in the pale moonlight
with the devil or without him;
her characters and mine.

Napowrimo 12 April 12 (Off the Prompt) Jesus

As triolets don't interest me let me write on Jesus, it being Easter.

Some say he didn't exist
Some say he was just a man
Some say his grave is found in Kashmir
Some say, in Jerusalem

To the Jews he was the false Messiah/the false Christ
To the Christians he is Lord
To the Muslims he is a prophet
To the Hindus one more God

Some say he was in India
Where he learned to walk on water
From the art of hatha yoga
And how to resurrect the dead

Some say he was in England
Some say that he was gay
Some say he was a woman
Some say that he took 'shrooms

But the Jesus that I met and know
Is none of all these things
He is both much simpler and deeper
And not deciphered by false runes

Some say he is resurrected
And ascended to the skies,
Will come back to judge the quick and the dead
With his saints and rapture his Bride

Then there will come the final reign
Of His, and peace on earth
and in heaven, both made new
With every tear wiped

And that's who I believe he is
As that's what gives me hope
To strive down here, below, now
To make things better for this world.

Inspired by Larry Norman for the form.

Jesus and Mary Magdalene whom he revealed himself to first after the resurrection

Napowrimo 11 April 11 The Language of Flowers

Part 1

The Flowers of Childhood

The red rose bush
The white jasmines
Mulla pookkal and kudamulla pookkal
And the roadside flowers
Touch-me-nots and forget-me-nots
The smaller, the better
Whites and yellows, reds and blue
The clusters the hummingbirds came to drink honey from
With their standing-stillness-whirring wings
With my sister trying to explain to me
The names I never remembered
My mother put the love of flowers in me
Even now they remind me
Of Gray and Wordsworth simultaneously
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen"
In forest or glade and valley and by tower
"And waste its sweetness on the desert air"
But "oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
And then my heart," again, "with pleasure
Fills and dances with the flowers
Of my childhood and gives me peace"

Part 2 The Flowers of Ideology

My mother read me Toru Dutt
but was wiser than the poet
for she told me to love the rose,
the lily, and the lotus - all,
not to make a fight of it,
For in the world they all three live
thrive
spread their grace
and do not care that men have made
them symbols to fight with
I follow my mother and
so equality always praise.

Part 3 The Flowers of Art

The flowers of art
like the love of God
are wider, deeper, longer, broader
higher than any man can grasp
Here there's a place for all the flowers
Ophelia's sad ones and also plastic, or cloth ones
Alice's talking and acting/dancing flowers
Flowers in vases and Venus fly-traps
I want to write the Revenge of the Flowers
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
"The flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryears"
Singing ones, to put it briefly
Here flowers come into their own
Here they have their own language
Here they have not only a glossary
They have their own litany and epiphany

Painting: Vincent Van Gogh, 3 Sunflowers, Still life.

Quotes from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray and I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by Wordsworth, sometimes popularly referred to as Daffodils.

A Translation of my Poem into Bengali by Lopa Banerjee from USA

"Honored and more than that touched and moved beyond words by Lopa Banerjee who is a great writer now in her own right translating my intensely personal poem into Bengali <3 font=""> Will never forget this gesture of love, dear Lopa."

Lopa  Banerjee  is with, Santosh Bakaya and Ampat Koshy.

March 27 at 9:53 AM

During grim times as these, hopeful that at least we are privileged with a roof over our heads, food on our plates and the succor of books, literature, creativity which is not only our food for thought but also the inspiration and the stimulus to carry on with our everyday lives, despite the grueling reminder of death and devastation ...

My humble Bengali translation of the English poem 'It Hurts Me', by Dr. Ampat Koshy , a prolific poet and scholar of contemporary Indian English literature. He has been my creative writing mentor since 2014 and I can't describe how happy I am to share this little gift with him.

4

আমি আহত হই
ঠিক যখন আমি ভাবি
কিভাবে তুমি বন্দী একটি দেহের বেড়াজালে, শব্দহীন.
হয়তো আমি আহত হই তোমার অপেক্ষা আরো বেশি.
অশ্রুর দুচোখে ধারাস্নান
ভাবি, যখন আমি যাই দূরে সরে, কিভাবে
তুমি বোঝাতে পারো না বোবা যন্ত্রণা
আমি জানতে পারি না, না জানবো কখনো
তোমার কাতর অনুভূতি Kkk
আর তার পর, সেই দিনটির কথা মনে আসে
যখন প্রিয়তমের প্রস্থান হয় চিরস্থায়ী,
বক্ষ সংকুচিত হয় ভাষাহীন আর্তনাদে
অশ্রু ঝরে যায় তীরবেগে,
তখন-ও, যখন আমি প্রার্থনা করি, আমি যেন প্রথম না হই,
বা তুমি, বা সে, বা
তার তাা সার

যদিও জানি, সে প্রার্থনা মন্জুর হবার নয়.
তাই আশায় আশায় থাকি, হয়তো কোনোদিন এমন আসবে—
তুমি যাবে প্রথম, তারপর সে, তারপর আমি.
কিন্তু প্রকৃতির এই হয়তো খেয়াল,
জানি তার অমোঘ বিধান.
প্রথম প্রস্থান আমার, তারপর তার, তারপর তোমার.

একথা ভেবে ভেবে আমি কুঁকরে যাই
দু চোখের অশ্রু মুছে যাই নিরুপায়,
এই বহমান স্রোতে, মনে হয়
আমাদের ছিল আরো, আরো উপায় ...
কিন্তু সত্যিই, ছিল না.

Original poem in English: It hurts me

It hurts me
only when I think of you
trapped in a body
wordless

Maybe it hurts me more than it does you?

The tears fall from my eyes
like torrential rain
thinking of how
when I go away
you cannot express -
I cannot ever know -
what you feel, then
and when I return
you cannot express -
I cannot ever know -
what you feel, again
and then , thinking of that one day
when one goes away to stay
my chest constricts more
my tears fall faster
even as I pray
that I will not be the one to, first
or you
or she or them
but it may all happen together
though I know such prayers are not answered
so I hope again, that it may happen the other way
you first, then she and then I
but if it goes the way of nature
then I know it will go thus
I first, then she, then you

Thinking of that
I get upset
but do not know what to do
except to wipe my eyes
go on
as if
there is a choice
when there never was one.

Poem source:

https://koshyav.blogspot.com/2015/

Photograph of Lopa Banerjee who is a creative writing teacher in the USA as well as a writer of fiction and non-fiction and of poetry and a translator of repute.

April 10 Napowrimo 10 GOOD FRIDAY (a verse play, in hay(na)kus )

Part 1 Mother Mary speaks:
I
remember you
As a child

That
Day on
The white sand

Making
Those pigeons
From the mud

And
when the
children came to

Destroy
mud pigeons
how you clapped

And
they came
to life, escaped

Flew
in the
sky, cross-shaped

An
awful foreboding
filled my heart

Today
you died
on the cross

I
wish I
was you, child

I
would clap
my hands, now

Make
my dove
alive, once again

My
tears
do fall down

Where
is God
or Gabriel now?

Is
this what
the end is?

No.
There must
be something more.

Part 2 Mary Magdalene speaks:

A
week ago
the children came

Waving
palm branches
and singing Hosanna

yesterday
you spoke
in dark sayings

Eat
my flesh!
Drink my blood!

Now
you hang
and are dead

Come
Get up
You freed me

Once
from devils
in my head

Where
is that
you, gone now?

My
tears once
washed your feet

The
same ones
now nail-pierced

I
perfumed you
with the spikenard

She
has done
this, you said

Against
my death
Now I see

What
you meant
Wish I didn't!

Part 3

Jesus:

I
wish I
could tell them

Hanging
here 'twixt
heaven and earth/hell

With
the keys
of death, hell

Paradise
Heaven and
souls of men

Dead
and alive
now all mine

But
it is
not yet time

It
ends not
Has just begun.

Painting: Christ of S.t John of the Cross by Salvador Dali (The Dark Night of the Soul)

Napowrimo 9 Concrete Poem Well, not really (Title: Beauty, she is!)

The pleasure of writing on the back of a nude, sketched, female figure ;) (Title: Beauty, she is!)

Her wavy hair
eyes
nose
lips
her curving back
her hips
her moons of bliss
her thighs
her legs
Beauty, she is!


Image taken from Vectorstock

NaPoWriMo 8 April 8 Poem inspired by quotes etc. Title: Goodbye, Dad and Mom

Goodbye, Dad and Mom

"I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew." - Sylvia Plath

"Oh, Daddy,

You know you make me cry" -  Fleetwood Mac

"Mother, do you think they'll try to break my balls?

....

Mama's gonna make all your nightmares come true.
Mama's gonna put all her fears into you.
Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She won't let you fly"...  Pink Floyd

When they came for me

they told me

"you are one of us.

Your ancestors

were from our religion.

Why did you leave us?

Come back home.

Don't try to convert us

We have the answers for that

No one can leave us

No one join us

And even among us

No one can go up the ladder

No one can climb down

'Nothing has changed since we began.

Our eyes have permitted no change.
We are going to keep things like this.'

You can't convert us

But, you "Jew"

you just try

&

your Daddy and Mommy will soon fix you.

Don't you know

we have answers for everything?

Your questions may be different, but change them, do.

Is your body weak?

Do Yoga.

Are you ill?

Try Ayurveda

or siddha vaidyam

and you will be fine.

Want no rebirth?

Go to Kailasa.

Is your soul sick?

Read the Bhagwad Gita.

Mind not enlightened?

Come to Vedanta.

Heart sick?

Embrace the bhakti marga.

Searching for mukthi?

Try our yukthi.

Don't call this conversion or baptism.

This is just cultural immersion.
Who was it said "Change is the immutable law in Nature"
So help us, Ram, we will kill that fellow!

Oh, dad and mom

lost in your chakravyuh

don't you know

the world has changed around you?

Anything you say

I don't have

as it is found

only in you

I found it all

outside too

Thomas the Apostle had it

and Thomas of Cnana

The Antiochians too

Siddhartha had it

The Sufis had it

Kabir did too

Akbar had it

& Asoka too

What can you give me

when what's lost has been found

what's to come has already been

that was not bought and paid for 

by the blood of the Lamb

when Mara fled when Buddha laughed

when Nanak spoke and many left

Hinduism and Islam 

when Zen and Tao is still there

when Confucius still speaks, though dead

what can you give me

except this lore

that this is my land

and it all began here

which is also not really true

It began in Africa, you know, you knew

and all land is holy and all land not (y)ours

we are its, and that the 'Redskins' knew
We have our own music
We don't need yours
Our own art, our own songs, and lyrics
Our own literature and culture too
Our own architectural spaces to woo
Do you want health for the body and medicine for its ailments?
We can give it to you too
through medicine, science, knowledge, research and reason now, anew
Do you want salvation
for the spirit?
Balm for the soul?
Enlightened mind?
Heart full of light and hope?
Intellectual thoughts to feed your mind,
Keep it satisfied?
It's all in our books, lit up in blue
Daddy, even escaping rebirth.
Don't give me the superior caste brew.
Truth is concave, convex and universal/global/international.
Daddy, for an instant, think of this:
If you were not there what would happen to Bliss?
Sat-chit-anandam?
Nothing would, it can't be added to
or taken from, don't you know, daddy dear?
That's the truth about any land
or religion or faith or caste/creed.
A world without us or a world without you?
Life would still go on, never fear!
Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.
Kind King Lear, don't cry, Cordelia still loves you.
One day, too late, you'll know only I/she was loyal and true to you. 

"Oh, Daddy,

won't you give me your smile

for letting me know"

"I'm a bit of a Jew"

Oh, Mother,

Don't fool me anymore

Your little boy's grown up

and he's no Oedipus.

He don't need no one, now, anymo'
to tell him right from wrong.
good from bad
black from white
Eenie meenie mini mo
He ain't no nigga, no mo' you can't catch him by his toe
and say if he follows let him go, if he don't tell him no

He don't need no lies

in the name of land, caste, faith, religion, language, -sthan or -ism.
All he wants is love and fun

and compassion, grace, mercy and a bit of life under the sun.

Oh Daddy, stop fooling me with this game.

I don't speak your language

of fascism.
Open, Sesame.
I have my own discourse too.
If you want to, fit in it, please do.

Have you heard Mahavishnu Orchestra sing

"Are you ready to be

a planetary citizen?"

Give up your nationalism.

And "Mother",

stop trying to tell me

"she's dangerous."

I married her.

The one you thought

I should not,

your perceived enemy.

Now be at peace.

High time you learned

life and time flow forward,
not backward,
if you two really want to -

to find, in time, both ease and peace.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OeEzmPs7i_U