A White Sheet

Today a white sheet is my day

it did not arrive

from the labyrinth of life,

detested from the monotony,

from the half and full details of humdrum life,

neither it has come

knowing the eternal truth, the dharma

my subservience to it,

or the pain of bondage

one would like to break.

It is one fine morning in September

 when the dry air

has just cracked the shrivelling bud

the pond is filled with

dried leaves and algae

an egret has left a feather

from the journeys

I have heaps of sunshine in my backyard

where the pages with moist stains

of Darjeeling tea has written the list

of tasks grown in hierarchy,

I am not retired

my enemies have forgiven me,

my tasks are now descending with freshness

it is the who I am

among the legends

spoken for.