Anya

A white lotus

untouched by the muddy waters within which they grow

Tuning one's heart through the music of her voice,

The strings of her chords.

Her delicate fingers, so delicate they separate milk from water

Separate gently the spiritual realm from the fluid matter

Her inner life pursue no ego, undiluted consciousness

The pink tint of her lips, twitching with responsiveness

Dew over olive skin

Like a thin veil, bathed in impossible whim

The swan by her side, discerns her right and wrong

Wisdom, a dangerous thing, a dangerous silence of knowing so long.

In your curls, circles of the mind from the Yoga Sutras,

Soft untamable spirals.

Big eyes, serene and gentle,

Vitreous lights do dance of vital,

In them, the four states of consciousness like a shield:

Waking, dream, deep sleep,

Eyes of turiya that heal,

Where the self dissolves its own name,

Eyes that inspire poem and canticle proclaim

Soon, I repose within your truest form,

In the jabuticaba-dark eyes of prakriti;

Of original matter, of metamorphic nature,

You drank halahala from the cosmic ocean,

Distinct, polymorphic.

“Nanda,” from the root nand,

Delight, blessed one,

Nanda, feminine goddess of happiness,

Desired protection, and from the Germanic fardi nanth, brave traveler of heartiness

By your altar doll lips

A smile of apsaras carved in stone,

Nanda, Abelle, for you, my scripts.

It's how singing is such a private little thing when it's from the soul. A small conversation between artist and listener. It's the love, rather expressed through its raw form, rather with sadness, longing wistfulness, rage.

Singing is an intimate little wooden hut near the beach, walls cracking with the pacific wind; the pauses for breath; and rusty doors by the sand flowing in the air; the rough of her voice. But the core, its core is soft and warmth, a home for distant travellers, sea creatures and curious pirates.

A small glimpse of the laughter of a lover.

Inspired by pearls, Sade