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India is like an ocean
that when still
forces me
to face my self
and when turbulent
crushes me with
a heaving humanity
that leaves me screaming
for solitude.
She is in more than
bangles and street cries,
henna and dancing,
she is like new moons
hidden behind a thousand veils
aware and pure
in grinding corn
and heavy water jug.
Poured out in chants of honey
her aroma of mercy
nourishes into sprouts
that bud to blossoms of sunlight.
My India does not just speak.
Her voice dances
in strains of sitar
draped in sari.
She is like a lover,
who excites you with a glance
and spurns you
back across the waves.
A mother
who feeds my soul
and scorns my
grasping for wind
and like a sister
she laughs at my fantasies,
beside me still
raises me when I fall.
She is a friend
who leads my soul
back to myself
and there I see truth