Cigarette in hand
Matted locks
Ashes on chest
Saffron dhoti
Silver hair
Flowing beard
God's own man
With a beggar's bowl
In search of Truth
Nothing is real
The body is ephemeral
Nothing of him belongs.
The ether of maya
Envelops all things
And all creatures
The sadhu exists
Only in Time
For him there is
Only the X-coordinate
Of Time and no
Y-coordinate of Space
He is a living ghost
An infinitesimal pixel
Of the cosmic
Phosphorescence
He lives in our thoughts
And in our dreams as
Sanatana purusha
Yet he does not exist.
Between him
And the world
No causality subsists
He exists
Despite the world
When the world cries
He laughs
And makes light
Of its troubles
He cries while
The world celebrates
Its triumphs and glories
He does not participate
In the drama of life
He is only a
Bemused spectator
Standing on the rim.
Yet his wizened face
Is as unreal as
His ganza smoke-rings
His flowing beard melts
Like a fistful of snow
His ochre robes
Dissolve into the
Azure evening sky.
