This skin's a liar, you know -
a cover, or an alias maybe.
It hides, and just doesn't show
that which is the me.

No, surely, the skin's not me.

But where in me is the me
that loves you so, and cries...
where in me is the turbulent sea
that brims up in the eyes ?

though, yes...
The skin it is that smarts to your caress
lights a gentle glow upon your sight
A tent alit within, the deep forest
contentment, reclining against the night.

And yet, the skin's not me.

For, did this skin show wrinkles when,
you weren't here, and my innards
knocked and knotted, again, and yet again -
ripped apart like feathers of birds?

Birds caught in the storm, amidst the din -
When the waters welled up to far above
to plead to the skies that is the skin
to show a tear, a sear that is love.

Oh, and still the skin stays the liar
It won't allow you to see the burn
that's inside, the copious fire -
The tremor, the shake, the churn.
Like a million rivers blended
to meet with you, when it's you
that happened, and life began,
and everything else ended.
 

~Shombuddho~

 

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