“I have been circling for a thousand years”- Rilke

It’s not the bread

Or the soup,

I can’t count it,

It’s never one

or four,

It’s not the pot,

Nor the grains in it,

It’s doesn’t serve the mind,

Nor exclusive to one soul,

It’s somewhere around the edge,

In an unfilled left place,

Should I be scared of fulfilment,

Where will it stay then?

I travel in between,

When I am lost,

I find it,

I travel in and out,

I know yet I don’t,

The pot doesn’t know who pours,

It quenches deep,

But how did it fill?

And when ‘out’, it pours,

The space,

it lets out freely,

It doesn’t hold,

In between self and higher,

Amidst suffering and surrender,

The space beholds

– Rupika Moitra

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