They left behind just sawdust and stalks
yellowed grass dried-up bush
cracked earth empty wells
rock piles cold wind
just bone and junk
and mould and dust and the tetter of rust
and silence
interrupted from time to time
by the iron clamour and a barked command
Sculptor from Ashanti
In the trunk of a teak tree
he seeks a pair of eyes
he hews he chisels away the first layer
he uncovers nothing
he bores
ever more impatient
he looks but
he sees nothing beneath the barked eyelid
he peels back he finds no pupil
close to the pith
he comes upon a pair of eyes
he looks overcome by dread:
Yogi Ramamurti
Yogi Ramamurti
bids that he be buried in a grave
he'll stay there for one week
the doctors will testify it's not a scam
whoever wishes can descend the tunnel
watch through the window:
Ramamurti lays in a grave
inert
not breathing
everyone is asked for a donation
the buried one wanted to earn some money
that's why he went to the grave:
to survive
after a week they dig up the yogi
Ramamurti emerges
weakened
he touched the absolute
that is always exhausting
he bows to the gathering
counts the donations
102 rupees
less than ten dollars
everyone disperses
an empty grave remains
Ramamurti was reborn
but he's still a beggar
weeks pass
he has nothing to eat
he's dying of hunger
I'm going back to the grave
he says
only in death
life
Untitled
The elderly gent
holds up
his spittled finger
checks
which way the wind is blowing
then
positions himself accordingly
and flies off
not high
not far
