What of this path…
What of this path
that speaks of my name
and yet, of itself, it holds
no identity.
Beckoning to my Soul,
it bids me, “Come, come…”
The painted path enraptured
within wooden pillars.
Thousands of arms
eased out from all sides
adorned with green fraying
leaves
—they seem like kites
hovering effortlessly.
Their stems, like the kite’s
tail, connected to the
grandeur of each tree
woven beside this nameless
path.
I step. It is no longer
my name I hear.
No, it is the name
connecting each of us…
—the hawk flying overhead,
—each blade of grass standing
with ease,
—the soft breeze caressing
my shoulders
—and, a soft whisper
resounding from every direction,
“I am.”
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