Dear Comrade,

Your words arrived, freeing themselves From the labyrinth called you. I had read somewhere that a woman’s Thought is as mysterious as the heart Of a sea. Perhaps I am making This up as I go, a nonsensical metaphor.

I had re learnt how to fashion metaphors - Out of stars, waves, Madonna floating In a boat of candles, a song in Spanish Hearing which a man and a woman Enter into each other’s arms as naturally as the wind Enters a bell and makes it ring -

On the faithful wheel of words this evening, Sitting at the feet of Don Pablo. You are a metaphor too, why for example I can allow you to stand for that evening When winter surfaced with sudden heat Forgetting its natural state or a mystery I occasionally attempt to fathom in my ignorance.

"And the truth?", I hear you ask. How should I answer? The finger that points to the moon is, sometimes, also yours!

Sashi