I wonder what Brahma does
sitting cross-legged
in his day which lasts
three and a half millennia.
I sometimes see him in my dreams
leaning on his elbows
over the clouds’
quietude.
Under it a lotus’ blossom opens
like a universe,
the Ganges smoothes the flint-stones,
singing hymns to the fire.
Still shines
that several-millennia-long day.
Both Brahma and the day are in no hurry.
But we hurry and rush
to finish as much work as we can
in the course of our short day.
As soon as we see the sun rise,
darkness falls,
closes the lid on the coffin
and before we step in the dance,
our festive robe becomes a shadow.