The Wanderer’s Road
Beyond the soil’s last furrow the road runs to the line of the horizon, floating in the wind like the end of a sari’s border. From field to field the clouds drift, and on this straight road, in a fakir’s robe, a life may be lived without complaint. On many nights of darkness, beneath the indigo sky’s painted vault, the far-off galaxies are seen, each carrying countless tales that spill like a single drop of light upon the breast of the earth. We knew the lives of fallen leaves. The deer of the heart has fled to the fields of the far plain; along this way, in saffron robes, a young monk leaves the world behind, answering the call of the far horizon— ants walk beside him in ordered lines. This empty road is where civilization was born; like a line of gold cloth spreads the joy of the ages. Here the Buddha, Atisha Dipankara, and Adi Shankara walked barefoot, passing through this society, where homes once opened their doors to the trade of truth. Old sinews, calm...