love and freedom: a dancer of silent tunes

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.

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


  1. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you, Prashant. About a caged bird who flies in circles and chirps out of fear of a future she can no longer live since her master imprisoned her there for a long time now…If you could only imagine the psychological fear and anxiety she must have gone through…you’d probably understand that no matter how free the bird to express herself in writing, pieces of her is caged only letting out her cry in words and agonized music. Come fast! Find her…and if you do, would you expect the bird to fly again like she once used to after years of being kept hidden from the world? Won’t the bird forget the ways of a bird, forget her home, and fear the world even after being let out? Because freedom doesn’t only mean flying or floating…freedom is death the moment the bird’s cage door was opened. And rebirth comes when the world was changed after the bird’s much-awaited flight or walk…but until then, hear the bird’s bitter mourning. perhaps, there’s nothing else you can do or nothing else to do. …and the bird’s freedom can only make you wonder. …as you leave her a wish of goodbye.

    “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.”

    1. Dear April… I would not expect anything from a bird who has been caged for years. I would only sing of the open skies and tell her how I want to fly. The hope is that she’ll fly. Death is in every passing breath, and so is life… circumstances bring us closer to pain, joy, hurt, bliss, and a myrid of other movements… however I believe in composition… even alchemy… to make music… poetry of joy is neither telling the truth nor lies… take care

      1. “I would only sing of the open skies and tell her how I want to fly.” Prashant. How sweet and thoughtful of you. ..if only the bird met you for her master. ..that cage would have been her forest.

  2. jeepahs fucking crow Prashant!!! holy crap! hahhahaa! i cant even find…I dont even know…how do I stay away for so long from this? you are a mystic a magician with your words and the way you bring to life feelings I don’t even know what to call!!! and now all I can think…what a lucky day the day we met! ❤

    1. Always so generous, dear Maureen. It wasn’t complete without your excess. Now I can once again look forward to your indulgences with my words… 😀

  3. It is one of life’s and love’s mysteries that only without the need to own, we can fully possess each other. Thank you for your words — they are poignantly beautiful and touch something in me that I do not have words for, but which I cherish no less.

    1. Thank you, Anna! It is really good to have you here.
      I read “She Who Conceals” and was taken by the many colors in your writing.

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