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.
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