They look lazy, asleep almost
having their daily siesta.
My presence seems to disturb them,
as if I was that significant.
They breathe in harmony with all that is.
The white blanket that envelops them
melts as they wake from an afternoon slumber
and come alive as the sun starts to set in
colours of blood orange and gold.
I, in spite of my Tom fords and French beret
seem at peace too, despite myself for
I am in comparison, new.
Like a shiny buckle on a withered, worn, yet priceless belt.
Amid this most exquisite picture,
never has my being been more felt.
Or have I had the chance to know for one instant,
what I would have seen through those eyes that seventh day
when all was said to have become what it is now.
One may feel that Spinoza speaks the truth
As it feels all god is embodied here
Not in churches, temples, or synagogues
Where we spill blood over the arbitrary and often untrue.
Here is my temple, my sanctuary and my soul
My prayers, my song, my truth.
- Reshma Krishnan