Vultures

From field to field—across the entire noon, filling Asia’s skies—

Vultures graze; humans see markets, camps, and settlements; silent plains

Belong to the vultures. Where the steadfast silence of the fields stands beside the sky—

Like another sky—the vultures descend once, one after another,

From dense clouds. As if distant light fades, weary elephants of smoke

Have fallen—fallen upon the fields, meadows, and wastelands of Asia,

For just a few moments. Then these abandoned birds ascend again,

Their vast dark wings rising above palm trees, mountain peaks, and shores of seas.

Once they glimpse the beauty of the earth, or ships in Bombay’s harbor docking quietly in port,

They watch that scene; once they soar over cool Malabar,

Circling around some mournful minaret’s edge, countless vultures

Forget the living birds of this world and seem to cross into some realm beyond death.

As though crossing some mythical Vaitarani River, or the sorrowful lagoon of life’s separations,

They cry out...and gaze as those ancient Huns dissolve into deep blue.

The Wanderers

O vultures, eternal wanderers of the skies,

What secrets do you carry in your shadowed wings?

You drift above the earth, unseen yet ever-present,

Witnesses to both life and decay.

Your flight is not aimless but purposeful,

A dance between worlds—between what is alive and what has passed.

The fields below hold stories untold,

Of farmers who tilled the soil until their hands bled,

Of battles fought and forgotten, of empires risen and crumbled.

And you, silent observers, circle above it all,

Unmoved by human triumphs or tragedies.

To you, there is no distinction between king and peasant,

Between gold and dust—they are all part of the same cycle.

Yet, tell me, do you feel sorrow for what you see?

Do you mourn the fleetingness of existence,

Or have you grown accustomed to the rhythm of endings?

Perhaps you understand something we cannot—that life and death are two sides of the same coin,

Inseparable, interwoven, infinite.

Look now at the horizon, where land meets sea—

A thin line separating the known from the unknown.

Here, in this liminal space, miracles unfold:

Sunrise paints the world anew,

Sunset bids farewell with golden tears.

Each moment births infinity, each breath holds eternity.

Do you recall the scent of freshly cut grass,

The laughter of children echoing through village lanes?

These fragments of beauty are threads woven into the tapestry of being.

They remind us that life is both fragile and resilient,

A dance of light and shadow, joy and sorrow.

And yet, amidst the ephemeral, there is permanence—

Not in objects, but in essence.

The song of the cuckoo lingers in spring air,

The taste of rain remains on parched lips,

The warmth of a mother’s embrace lives forever in the heart.

Such moments transcend time, becoming eternal.

But tell me, traveler, what will you carry with you

When the final curtain falls?

Will it be regret for roads untaken,

Or gratitude for journeys completed?

Will you mourn the loss of youth,

Or celebrate the wisdom gained with age?

Death is not an end, but a threshold—

A doorway leading to realms unknown.

Just as rivers merge with oceans,

So too does the soul dissolve into infinity.

What fears can bind us when we realize

That we are already part of something greater than ourselves?

Imagine, then, crossing that threshold—

Leaving behind the familiar, stepping into mystery.

Will you meet ancestors waiting to guide you,

Or find yourself alone in boundless light?

Perhaps neither, perhaps both;

The truth eludes definition, defies comprehension.

Yet one thing is certain: love endures.

It flows through veins unseen, binds hearts unbroken.

Even in death, it remains—a beacon guiding us home.

For love is not confined to flesh and bone;

It transcends form, existing beyond the limits of mortality.

So let us live fully, love deeply, dream boldly,

Until the final hour arrives.

Let us cherish the ordinary, for it holds extraordinary grace.

Let us honor the earth, which sustains us,

And the sky, which inspires us.

Let us walk gently upon this sacred ground,

Leaving behind footprints of kindness, not destruction.

When the sun sets for the last time,

May we close our eyes with peace in our hearts.

May we leave behind a legacy of light,

So that others may follow in our footsteps,

Guided by the same eternal spark.

Thus, O wanderer, fear not the end—

For endings are merely beginnings in disguise.

Embrace the journey, savor the moments,

And trust that beyond the horizon,

A new dawn awaits, radiant and infinite.