Chandrataal (Moon Lake) in the Spiti region of the Himalayas
| Indian Standard Time |
Who would have guessed
that April would bring more
than vernal rain in the West?
April delivered you in the East,
a downpour upon the parched
landscapes of my solitary world.
May opened, bloomed, unfurled
into the roses of the Himalayas,
yet the sweet sightings of you
became scarce and fleeting
and the nourishing drops
of the preceding moon
subsided and moved
on to other domains.
When June appeared,
thankfully you did too,
reaching just after dawn
upon early summer winds,
this time for a longer sojourn
in my welcoming heart and arms.
Yet even the best months end
in the rushing river of time
and this being wonders
whether the monsoon
is still planning to arrive.
Do the heavy clouds desire
to break open and drench me,
to shower the ground that thirsts
for the pure water of eternal love?
How long must the dehydrated
hills and sun-drenched trees
wait for rivulets to cascade
and for roots to be sated
with the essence of life?
Even if there is no July,
even if there is no August,
even if there is no September,
October, November, December,
even if there is only the memory
of the mountain springs of love,
a lonely and empty streambed,
this body, this soul, this heart
will not forget these feelings,
the longing of God for God,
or the tears of recognition
that poured from heaven
when we stood together
deep within the mystery
at the summit of delight,
in the realm of the Divine,
beneath star-sprinkled skies
blazing on India Standard Time.
This poem is part of a collection titled The Longing of God for God.
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