On the leaves of the heart
write the truth of love
not the illusion of amour.
Like the palms of the potter
press and knead of the earth of the heart
shape the body of love in the heart
not the illusion of amour.
Let love happen
to the soul like a divine feeling
not magic so the soul can be free
from the ties of the body
and visit moksha
uninvited.
Love is the music born
of the instrument of the body
play it like a practitioner.
Love, the amour of the chords
of the body-instrument
the primitive song of intimate moments...
(Painting : Manish Pushkale)
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