M a n n e e
She
One singular day,
she told me about it.
That riding the bus,
she had found extremely beautiful and elegant
this image of this girl
who was writing in her book,
as if to capture some fleeting thoughts
of immediate importance
or just writing en passant,
some theories which could transform future
perspectives of humanity,
or maybe even just some gibberish, who knows
But i could imagine her, the girl
and her also, this onlooker,
the woman who found living poetry
in the form of the writing girl
in this filthy,crammed old CNT bus,
She beholds the girl, and i , her
The bus, en route to the university,
filled to the brim with sweating intellectuals
and she, to whom my father jokingly says
that black alphabets were equal to bulls
Her innocent awed look of a child awes me in turn
Trying to imitate with unstable hand,
the act of writing, with a bare finger ,on the wooden table,
she herself is, poesy incarnate
kabirdass's words ring true at that moment
that the deer searches the musk everywhere in the forest
without knowing that its in its navel itself that it resides..