Oh you pavement scuffers, ceiling crawlersWhy not walls of wheat and woodland?
Jump the railcar wayfarers…
What of floors of flower and dirt.
You’re plodding through the pate
When you should be dancing through dharma,
reveling from the root.
There’s a gypsy who never slumbers
Even when she sleeps.
There’s a field walker, a vagabond,
who fills his rusty tin cup with rasa
sprung from the fountain that flows in her dreams.
They drink an amber world, and wipe flames
From their lips…
The wheat is razed to the soil line, and below
I’ve wandered into oblivion,
Where my beloved waits.
Fanaa. Fanaa. Fanaa.
