Coming Back

Go—
(if you must)
to that far corner of the wind.
Going—coming—
paper coins in a marketplace
that never opens.

 

Return—
is not a door you simply walk through.
No—
it is Aruni, spine arched,
holding the flood like a heartbeat;
it is Uddālaka’s gaze—
water brimming
in the cup of his hands,
trembling
for ages.

 

The price?
It lives at the far end of the road,
where dust is older than our names.
Yes—
the road stops there.
No—
you cannot come back clean.

 

Once—
God leaned into the human soul,
asked for the way home.
He carried
rules like roses,
ledgers like love letters.

 

We closed the gate—
politely,
firmly—
and left Him standing in the dusk,
with all the returning
undone.