He speaks my language- the crude tongue of the ordinary, common souls. Oh, he talks about the birds of the fields, the lily of the valley, mustard seeds and dough. Most of all, I love him for the stories. A parable-master! I am sure that he would have written poems too. How could he not, when he had walked the mountains on lonely nights and traversed the rivers on stormy evenings! Wish I was that woman , and that I had stood by his tomb when he called ‘Mary’. And I replied, Rabonni. Am sure he would have laughed and held out his arms. A teacher always speaks your language.
What will you trade for a piece of sky? Memories? Have you walked hand in hand with the present, oblivious to the past, and unmindful of the future? Try not to miss out these lovely specks of greeting shed all the way, down the lane! Those beings who silently embrace your footsteps for a whole day, patient listeners to your unending tales, before withering to the natural rhythm of the universe. Stop by the woods for the hearts which hold us closely, before dusk sets in.
a white and black bag
knives to saw the potatoes
remnants of friendship