Sky was a curvature of serenity,
Hills stood a pinnacle of ethereal question marks,
Trees shamed you in their pregnant silences,
Roads had no destination.
People reacted with instinctual simplicity,
Sighs and pains were a gift of god,
Not to be manipulated,
But accepted with grace and poetry.
When was it that I went last to my village,
That oasis of calm and frivolous passion,
An island of unasked for freedom,
A sustained awake-dreaminess.
I live in a city now, a cloister of inhibitions,
A grill for instincts and intuitions,
An effete existence,
I have nothing left,
But the world’s soulless concerns,
Yet the echo of the distant thunder,
Sometimes lifts the dark halo – momentarily.
Suffern, New York, September 29, 2017