pilgrimage

human sheep packed into buses,
mountain roads wound up
to quaint temples
opened only once a year;
white robes flowing across to Mecca,
to kneel and kiss
a turning, teasing earth,
who laughs at her own joke;
a pair of feet trekking untrodden paths
to virgin beaches and twilight zones,
manna for a tired soul,
journeys that must be made alone,
jaws locked in tireless chants,
breath engraved in stone,
candles and lamps attempting to thaw
frozen minds looking for ways to escape hell;

yes, there are many roads leading home.

and there's one where there are no identities,
only prayers lived and journeys made invisible,
in the explosion of a smile on a child's teary face,
in the large warm palms that soothe a tired baby,
in the deep embrace of a dear friend's molten eyes,
in the broken songs of summer cicadas serenading the moon,
in the slant of rain upon the patient fallow earth,
in sinews that toil day after day under a scorching sun,
in a bird lifting off into a yawning sky,
in a leaf tumbling from an old tree to its roots,
pilgrimages made everyday in silence,
to the centre of this blessed heaven, on earth.