The Wheels of Time

A bone white moon illuminates a rolling country.

Upon a hill rippling with fragrant tallgrass billows a tent. It extrudes a tongue of warm light, welcoming and beckoning. You enter to find a strange man seated among fine cushions that gleam like very large jewels. A languid gesture from a brown hand bids you take a seat.

At first you think his eyes are cauterized holes, but you realize it shifts and shimmers with stars. He knows the question on your tongue. Incense smoke rushes against the whipping canvas backdrop, curling around his turban as he begins to speak.

“We ride the wheels of karma, we children of Kali, the noontide dreams of Krishna. We are splinters of eternity falling through countless lives, living and loving and dying, to forget as we are reborn.” He winks, extinguishing galaxies.

The smoke is intoxicating. His widening smile is a river at sunset, full of sparks that are too bright to look upon, filling your vision.

“Perhaps, we are a single, lonely soul dancing with itself.”

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