Whenever I think of Satchida,
I think of a banyan
his poems,
a thousand descending roots
a thousand descending roots
finding soil in wounded places
You do not choose the shadow of a banyan.
It finds you.
When the heat of the world
becomes unbearable,
it falls across your shoulders
as though it had always known your name.
In the rustling parliament of its leaves,
gods loosen their crowns,
beggars sleep without hunger,
and sinners, for a brief afternoon,
forget the weight of judgement.
No one is questioned
beneath a banyan.
Only held.