What it is to me;
It is only to me.
What I see, is what I see;
And though you may find it hard to believe,
My blue is only my blue,
As your red is only yours.
In this tiny speck of time and space,
We find ourselves two poles apart.
Between us is a gulf of innumerable tears,
Singing a song for aeons, or so says Tagore.
I see not you, but the shape of your being,
As I do with every other void around me.
I live on the ground and all that it gives,
Longing for the ambrosia of the skies,
Not knowing of the longing of the birds.
I see not myself, or that which makes me,
I see only the other,
And in him, all that I am not.
The strains from a divine music reach out to me,
And add to my being, the element of the soul.
Shadaj-Pancham conspire to open my sleeping eye,
And with that, all is clear and free.
You are you, and I am I,
Yet a string passes through our mutual being.
In that intersection of infinite lines,
Two different worlds collide;
Collide, transform and enmesh,
To give one collective fabric,
On which are several reds and blues,
Each distinct, yet immovably same.
The eye looks for that which awakened it,
Only to find the notes emanating in the ether.
Tracing the lines back to their source,
It covers deserts and galaxies,
To finally reach the feet of the Master;
The One, who is, eternally and always.
I looks at the fabric draped on my senses,
My blue, resplendent and lively as ever.
Your red appeals just as well.
Soon however, everything blurs,
Your red mixes with mine,
As does everything else.
As I close my eyes,
The eye keeps watch
It sees the world converging to one point.
Finally, I too float on to the point,
And discover much to my joy,
That it is to my world that I have returned.
The eye glances to the side,
And finds you standing, all eyes opened.
And I see the oneness of both our beings, our reds and our blues,
For I no longer exist, and neither do you.
All that stands are two eyes,
Bowed down at the point of omni-convergence,
The music still playing, now and forever, at His feet.
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