WHY SHOUDN’T I LOVE A CIMMERIAN KRISHNA?

That the holy love is a night.
One endless dark night, like a narrow greasy river endlessly flowing through the urban backyards.

Riding over the hard rolling dark serpent clouds,
Our love river is one endless trek in the grey moony shadows.

Why should we know the moonlight?
As we float in frolic on the dark greasy absence,
Why should we know of true love or light?

Every movement of ours melt into strange dark depths,
And as we gaped vacantly into the emptiness through our soot-laden eyes, we lost us.

As we held out our empty palms into the emptiness,
And spoke,
Our voices came rolling back to us,
Like black glass marbles into the greasy dark river.

What we heard as the cracking glassy noises from all over, could that be the lost echoes of the flute of Krishna once played from the banks of the black Yamuna?

What we thought was dark too.

When we listened, it all meant that there is an end, and some echoes: “the light await there”.

That our love was dark, and we liked its surreptitious ways,
Its grease, its soot, and the slothful crawl of the dark clouds.

Not that we were looking for light, or a flash of lightning,
It is just that we simply liked looking into our empty palms in the darkness of our shadows,
Simply thinking of the darkest love and its empty gifts in the empty palms.

Shivaji
12th –13th Jan. 2002.