Ungrateful Sorrow

At dawn shey departed My mind tried to console me - ' Everything is Maya'. Angrily I replied: 'Here's this sewing box on the table, that flower-pot on the terrace, this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed- - all these are real.' My mind said: 'Yet, think again.' I rejoined: ' You better stop. Look at this storybook, the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves, signaling the rest is unread; if all these things are 'Maya', then why should 'shey' be more unreal? ' My mind becomes silent. A friend arrived and says: 'That which is good is real it is never non-existent; entire world preserves and cherishes it its chest like a precious jewel in a necklace.' I replied in anger: 'How do you know? Is a body not good? Where did that body go? ' Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother, I began to strike at everything in this world that gave me shelter. And I screamed:' The world is treacherous.' Suddenly, I was startled. It seemed like someone admonished me:' You- ungrateful! ' I looked at the crescent moon hidden behind the tamarisk tree outside my window. As if the dear departed one is smiling and playing hide-and-seek with me. From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars came a rebuke: 'when I let you grasp me you call it an deception, and yet when I remain concealed, why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction? '