Dear Friend of my Heart,

as my chest rises and falls in the company of the forest song, I am reminded of an old poem. Today my charred lips thirst for the golden wine again.

I raised that night the golden grail,

and held for sacred the ephemeral

for in these seas where I’d set sail,

I cast my net, found not the eternal.

quaffed with gusto the Golden wine

and held for sacred the perishable

the lunatic loved and he loved fine

but true lover loves the perishing as well

no prophet of decadence am I

just a poet, a dancer of silent tunes

singing solitary the songs of high

I hold for truth the shifting dunes

bathed my lips with Dionysian’s blood

and spoke to my darling comrades thus

nothing of significance there is lovers

and not a single care better or worse.

https://storyofthefootloose.com/2013/08/10/golden-wine/

It has been some five years, but the words of this verbose dancer of silent tunes ring true for me in some ways… the true lover loves the perishing as well…

It makes me really sad when wanting to possess is mistaken for love, or when love spirals downwards into a wanting to possess. Possessing is so unlike love. Often the best of us want to own what we think we love. Don’t you think it is most distasteful and unlike love or empathy to look at the poet wandering in the forest and call him a prisoner of his own heart’s calling? Mister Immanuel Kant suddenly shook me out of my sweet complacency when he said that in nature we are slaves to natural law. It was something I had never felt, thought, or read. It is something  I don’t want to talk about.

For me, love is not about sharing a prison cell. It is rather about liberating each other… about finding your community, finding your tribe… Do you think it is love that you feel, dear friend, if you want to cage a bird, such that you can listen to her song all the time? The song you will hear will be one of mourning and loss. Slowly in the dark windowless room you’ll teach yourself to find some mirthless sweetness in her bitter mourning.

I wonder if it hurts the florist to pluck a flower. Dear florist, does it not hurt a tender soul like yours to pluck a flower? You surround yourself with many colors and so much beauty. I come to you to get flowers that I want to gift to my lover and to the friends of my heart to express the warmth I feel for them. We keep these flowers in the quiet sanctuary of our old poetry notebooks, nestled softly between pages 106 and 107, like the most precious memories… like her scent when the breeze carried me to her… thank you dear florist. I can’t pluck the flowers on my own. To be honest, I did pluck one for Suza when we were high in the mountains… and I like my chamomile tea… and jasmine tea…

Flowers are best left in the bush, and the birds flirting with the foliage when they are not immersed in the azure firmament…

Eager to hear from you.

Much love,
Prashant Nawani