divakarchopra.newaesthetic
Siddhartha
Supine by her side his senses are still.
As a bird's wings, folded,
As a girl's palm, faint,
Entranced by the peace of knowing
In the warm bowers of life, a cold
Funereal calm.
Yashodhara's careless tresses are fragrant
With gold, weighed by moonlight and sleep.
He breathes soft and on his fair breast feels
Her one arm at rest,
Rise and fall, rise and fall
With a detachment that embalms the pulse,
After the lovegame
Is won and lost and won and lost.
After thunder,
And light,
Formless winds that tore at leaves, after the whip
Of rain, grey-white woven,
Is come now to land and sky, a quiet
Resignation.
Far away is his gaze.
Siddhartha, the prince, sees with lids lowered half,
Some man lotus-eyed,
Beneath the banyan tousles,
Where the small winds play truant no more,
And the smooth brow
Is inviolate.
By Arvind Joshi
Siddhartha
Supine by her side his senses are still.
As a bird's wings, folded,
As a girl's palm, faint,
Entranced by the peace of knowing
In the warm bowers of life, a cold
Funereal calm.
Yashodhara's careless tresses are fragrant
With gold, weighed by moonlight and sleep.
He breathes soft and on his fair breast feels
Her one arm at rest,
Rise and fall, rise and fall
With a detachment that embalms the pulse,
After the lovegame
Is won and lost and won and lost.
After thunder,
And light,
Formless winds that tore at leaves, after the whip
Of rain, grey-white woven,
Is come now to land and sky, a quiet
Resignation.
Far away is his gaze.
Siddhartha, the prince, sees with lids lowered half,
Some man lotus-eyed,
Beneath the banyan tousles,
Where the small winds play truant no more,
And the smooth brow
Is inviolate.
By Arvind Joshi