Asclepeion and the Faithless Prophet

The other night I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg

but untamed tears made my dream blurry

Hence I don’t remember what he said

There were snow-flakes in his beard,

though snow doesn’t fall in Calcutta…..

Outside there’s a tree where strange

and unknown flowers bloom – he

stood beside the tree and stared at me

through my window which I keep open

from March to October.

Flags and flames and horses and lighthouses –

These happen to be the regular features

of my dreams, with the occasional candles

and empty streets and spiders and gardens

But for a change, this time

it was Ginsberg – silent, distant and sad

And this was rather strange :

For I associate good old Allen Ginsberg

with the holy blank laughter that bursts out

from the darkest depth of the womb

of the sleeping earth and shatters itself

into a million hollow and shining pieces

of darkness and light – that crazy all-encompassing

laughter at the face of impending doom

like those Biblical thunderbolts before

the final storm……

A lame association, I must admit

But that’s the way it is !

But in that dream the prophet had pain in his eyes

And that filled my dream with those passionless tears

Then again, it might have been just the autumn rain

and nothing else.

Too much sugar in my coffee, I guess