I was the river in the camps,
carrying clean water like sacred ash.
Then came the great pause—
a dam of empty hands,
my flow stopped mid-stream.
The badge dissolved like camphor in flame.
I stood on the bank,
watching my name drift away.
But the old books whispered:
You are That.
Not the work, not the well,
not the lists of names and needs.
I am the quiet beneath the noise,
unchanged by drought or flood.
In the forest of silence,
I sat like a seeker under the banyan of March.
No desk, no duty—
only breath,
slow as a temple bell.
Each exhale released a village I served,
each inhale drew in the rain of what’s next.
I polished my path like a prayer bead,
offered my days without asking for return.
No clinging to outcomes—
only the doing,
pure as dawn water.
The inner voice said:
Act, but do not grasp the fruit.
So I walked forward—
to new villages, new wells,
to the child who waits with open hands.
Let the road choose.
Good and hard,
loss and gain—
both are shadows on the cave wall.
The real cleansing is within:
washing the heart in the river of grace.
Every small hand washed
is a god removing obstacles.
Now I rise before light,
whisper peace to the empty chair.
This pause was the dance of endings—
destruction before the new bloom.
From the ash of what was,
a quiet circle grows:
a space for the weary,
a lamp for the lost.
I am the drop and the ocean.
The path and the walker.
Let go of the old name,
taken by the Eternal.
That which is whole remains whole.
Even when the cup is empty,
the soul stays full.
I'm becoming.
The wheel turns—
and I, the center,
stay still.
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