Sans rasa, the drudges drudge on, all skeleton, no
marrow. “Justify why.” They’d rather die, yet know
how not to show it. Counting, counting they pass
work’s hours, summing in place of thinking. What
it all adds up to, they seldom ponder, coasting on
waves of convention. Helpless to touch even the
toes on their feet, they assume postures of great
inner balance. Their outer wobbliness they laugh
off as a velleity, claiming to have reached beyond,
to some invisible essence. Drifting whilst grifting,
they wile away lifetimes, convincing others to be
convinced themselves. Drinking whilst sinking,
they know not the nectar, whose taste frees one
from all lowly stinks. Now evening’s descending,
I shiver and forgive her, whose fine binding belies
syrup-less-waffle. The witch Māyā receives tribute
from naked emperors, though bound finely in her
own pretensions. May the One sing me so juicy
a song, I’ll fly true across sin’s meeching gloam.
____
Nihal Singh