Under The Peepal Tree

At times I desire I were not born—
dead weight floating in the darkness,
an umbilical noose
closing with intent,
just to never feel
this weight again.

This world—
where currency outweighs
the individual,
their personality,
their wisdom—
is hollow.

Now I am astray
in the Moha Chakra,
spinning in delusions,
seeking salvation
with no supreme wisdom
to calm the wheel.

I sit under the Peepal tree,
not as the Illuminated,
but as the spent.
I listen for birds above—
chirping, singing
in a tongue
older than sorrow,
talking of emigration,
of survival,
of departure
while I stand.

Their wings inscribe scriptures
on the empty blue sky,
verse of instinct,
of faith in the wind—
and I find myself wondering,
what sort of faith
permits them to move
without question?

My hands shake
with too much past—
scars inherited
like heirlooms,
echoes of lifetimes
in which I confused chains
for duty.

They tell us
we're all stardust,
but I am more like
ash in a storm—
dissolving,
lost,
longing
for silence
that remains.

I have attempted mantras,
mudras,
charts of moksha
inscribed in holy ink—
yet I come back
to this same bark,
this same breath,
this same broken stillness.

And yet—
the birds come back every year
as if nothing's different.
Perhaps that's the wisdom:
not to flee,
but to weather
gracefully.

Perhaps I am not destined
to move beyond,
but to become familiar
with the grief,
to sit with it
without shrinking.

Let it linger
like an old friend
in my heart
until it knows
how to speak softly