This man hangs mid-air,
Floating as foam floats on a gently heaving sea;
He is light as the light that is
Borne aloft upon the backs of tall swaying trees.
This man is made up purely of thoughts;
Fine-spun as the threads that the spider weaves,
Slowly he revolves in the focus of my eyes.
Sensational he is – a tissue of delicious lies.
One with the breath of things, my man is
The soul of fires leaping,
The sparklings of the seas’ great sheets at sun-risings,
The stars’ tireless signallings, the sudden lightnings.
Slowly he revolves, slowly wandering in the great outdoors
Like sounds that pace the sky
His entry and exit, to and from all atmospheres is free.
He is the mystery for so long as the heart marvels without doubt.
O easy man of my wishes climbing out the blind of my mind,
And thence onto the rare air, to survey the whatever that is
And gazing deep into the echoing dome of time and of space,
I envy you your gift to be a weightless spirit of no mortal race.
Man recumbent up there, like a puff or fluff of smoke or cloud
Man of no grand speeds, yet present wherever you would so choose
Stay, not turn away and disappear;
Bring the light of wonder to my eyes, now and for always.
–KESHAV MALIK