Shanti

"God place, this."
And still the army came,
who'd have thought, to run up hills
and sweat. Everyone comes
here, eventually. Even guns love
peace. Still they question
and point barrels to sky.

I cower with the Germans,
genetic predisposition
against militaristic displays of
force, but they don't fire
and we laugh and don't know
why. After two days
even the army left.

"Peace place," this tree, this
Mandir, this Kuti, this smoke
and wind to blow the smoke away.
The tree hails "Salaam!" to all
a yellow Ohm, and from the Kuti
Baba is calling, "Come, sit."
Be free, if only for this moment.

Everybody comes here, eventually,
even if they don't know why.
Baba knows...and smiles
a finger to his brown nose and a
raspy laugh, a gleam in his brown eye.
The army runs time trials up the hill and
Baba sits.

The tourists come and go, the locals
come and go, the army, the film crew,
the dancers and me too,
we come and go. "God place,
this." Baba came once
and stayed, but after two days
even the army left.