This world is a cruel midwife to deliver us.
Of what use is the illusion of birth?
That celebrates our moment of separation,
And has the audacity to call it a promising beginning.
Of what use is a body with wings?
This heart was not meant for flight,
Not in the canopy of hollow clouds,
Nor riding into the first break of sunlight.
For a lifetime spent searching abroad
Brings worn shoes and tired hearts,
Well-travelled bones buried out there, alone.
This world is too callous a midwife to deliver our love.
Find me in the unnamed places where we first met,
Greet me in the untold spaces within the devoted heart,
Love me in the loneliness of a human apart.
Would that I could feel you in the stillness,
But there is no silence for a mind calling out in absence.
Let’s return to the wilderness, love, and begin this game again.
Play carelessly in the clay from which we were made,
And vow this time not to give our dance a name.
// Poem by Ravi S. Kudesia