I read Rilke
And feel the rhythm
Of poetry; of the breath
Behind the words.
And then I start writing.
To prospect.
To see if I can glimpse
A taste and feel of
The delight and beauty
And crystalline insight.
Peek at life. If only
To get the impression
That things could be understood.
That one could
Sink beneath one’s own wisdom
(as Cohen would say),
However deep it may feel
At any given time.

And when it works,
The Universe (with a thrill)
Whispers to my intelligence:

<< . . . this could all be yours . . .>>

– Pavaka Ritchot.


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