Joy

Our joy is a thousand years, born yesterday from the spirits which refuse to die, nor be bottled as wine.

It is as light as ether, and moves as it pleases, and the dark recesses and dreams of torments stand little chance against its sunshine and rain.

There’s no window which can stop its smell from entering. Like freshly baked bread, like the smell of sand from across a field of wild grass and flowers, it belongs to everyone, even to those who wish they never were.

Our joy filters through trees, as the evening sun slants and trails away to bring the day to far off lands and countries born of rivers and capricious lines on maps.

It rests a while like a lonely afternoon siesta with songs of birds and raags, of sumptuous lunches, only to be woken by the waft of fresh coffee and a light of hope through the gaps in the blinds.

Our joy is forever in my mind, an image carved out of wants and dreams from stories old, of princes and palaces, of bijou homes with kettles on boil, and gardens of roses, prickly red and white, and a bunch of bluebells that nod their heads to the voice of little children.

Our joy is the parijatham I see every day, and smell at night, wonderfully white, blushing at secrets only they know. Our joy, I hope to know and fly with, if only for a little, for it is a thousand years old, and I can last but a short while.

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