Head Massage: Shirasa Taila Vimardhana Ayuraveda Massage Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The brass pot is suspended overhead
I must lie still, beneath the scented oil
A neck stand is supplied, a towelled bed

It’s guaranteed all worries to erase
Hitting my temples in a steady stream
Of oil, kept running through the punctured base.

There’s not a breath of wind. All here is calm
The pot’s swayed back and fore by the masseuse
Across my brow, the oil a constant balm

Treat for the brain, lady, to let it rest
I’m drifting in and out of a light sleep
Being anointed feels like being blest

I see a young mahout as I walk out
His elephant, stretched lazy in the river
Bathing its sides with water from a spout

It shuts its eyes, as stroking its old skin
Its master tries to smooth away its aches
Like making silver from a rusty tin
There’s not a breath of wind. All here is calm
And gentle, as the hum of an old psalm.