Tsundoku

 

(Tsundoku - Japanese term for the practice of buying a lot of books and keeping them in a pile because one intends to read them, but have not done so yet)

 

I stare at

The towering pile of books -

The only source of joy

In my vast empire of penury;

Collected like riches -

Spices, as if, from all

Corners of the Silk Route

But I look at them with guilt

For while I have travelled

To far-off corners in their quest

I have not melted in them,

I have not dived into their pearly depths

Nor have I mined the spectral gems

Their black gold

In Indian ink.

Alas, my sins -

For not granting them time,

For not collecting once

What can be gathered

A thousand times

 

But my unread books

Smile back at me

Not in angst,

With peace rustle, my papyri all

‘The intent of the temple,

Lies in every sculpted stone,

For who but a dervish

Thirsts for his God unknown?

The walls of the temple then

Also make the shrine

The priest is the pilgrim

In him, the world’s divine

And as long as there’s intent

The Cathedral gets to stand

At times in gilded towers

At times in desert sand.

At Minerva’s gifts, I smile

The pilgrimage is long –

I start with a single sheaf,

And sing a wisdom song…

 

02^nd August, 2024

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