Freedom Song (for Moksarava)

In a remote cave
In the high mountains
Of a far-off country
A thousand years ago,
An old beggar
Sings simple songs
To a handful of ragged wanderers.

Surely his songs
Will die with them,
Alone in the high places,
The bones of their meaning
Left for wild beasts to gnaw on,
The tracks of their melody
Covered by winter snow.

And yet the old veteran
Of ten thousand meditations,
The yogin with eyes of light,
Has filled these verses
With so much truth,
So much freedom,
So much of Reality’s magic,
That they cannot die.

Instead they take flight,
Borne aloft on the great wind
Of his compassionate breath,
Winging their way like eagles,
Down the centuries,
Around the world.

7th October 2004.