What can I tell you about sacred
– that you haven’t already felt deep in your soul
when the warm salt wind blows in from the Laccadive Sea
laced with fishermen’s gossip and mothers’ prayers?
– that you haven’t already tasted on your finger tip
as it traced the silver veins on pink lotuses melting
in the sun on ancient alters?
– that you haven’t already heard in the festive
song of dancing clouds rolling boldly
across our bare-souled pilgrimage?
– that you haven’t already held, fistfuls of rough
sand and pink salt rocks, shaped like uneven worlds
tumbling between love and habit?