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WATER

Old river-thought murmurs 
 —I slip— 
  not away, but into the hush between 
  what holds and what lets go— 
 a spine of light bending softly 
   from mist to depth. 

I remember stillness: 
  cupped hands at morning prayer, 
  a silence shaped like longing 
  filling with the cool of grace. 

Listen— 
  I dwell in every pause you mistook for end. 
 Your name—rippled 
  through me, again and again, 
  a hymn undone by echo. 

Yet I am no hymn. 
 I am the silence after— 
  unclinging— 
   and the weightless reach. 

See how the lily leans, not in sorrow 
 but surrender— 
  a slow bow to sky-drip, 
  a soft 
   unfolding. 

Where I flow is not escape 
  but return. 
 The fall is not forsaking. 
 The fall is 
  how I carry 
    you home.

Copyright © Jay Narain

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