As a child it was the grip on my mother's fingers
My little mind dozing off into the world of colors.
Down with the shivers of Typhus and delirium
It was the friend's hand on my forehead.
In the youth, it was the smile of the girl,
The girl who tried to cross my path, in vain.
A glass of water from a faceless Indian,
After a long walk on an Indian summer afternoon.
The look of the cow
After its wound were dressed;
My hand; supporting a fallen comrade;
Who paid dearly for what he believed.
Life with the silent Yogi
Who never taught through ...