The Wait

My shadow swirls in the moonlight,

the watery reflection in the Ganga by the ghats at prayag,
breaks into the shattered petals of memory.

I am the Yaduri that men desires
 melting in me like the summer snow of the Shivaliks.

I too have a soul, a wandering cloud
 that empties and pours, that fills and recycles
  like the holy waters that gurgles and gushes.


I am the Ganga- pure in the prayags yet polluted in the plains
I journey alone in this life . . . like the bird I saw in the Valley of Flowers,
  soaring high above the mountains in its search for 'the nest'.


I am gentle in my flow but could be wild with raze
  the time and tide reigned by the seasons.


I comfort the beggars, the out-castes, the homeless and the widows,
  sucking in their pains and tears in the veins of my tributary.


I wait for the Yavana to embrace me before my sojourn in this life ends
impregnating me with another life into a distant timeless and spaceless world.