Journeys

Journeys are not only journeys

The distances stretching and shortening
Or the terrains shifting,
Because they enter you,
The smoke rising from behind the palms and coconuts, and the gulmohurs in full bloom,
The unending river with its stomach dry at places, boats stagnant or floating
In clouds of white and blue.

The chatters stop at times suddenly
And you dive into other recesses
Inside you, without purpose, and
Come again,
Refreshed, bathed, before going back to
The crowd of monotonous voices
And bee lives.