Aaj to hajari hanso

Trying to play some music on this blog. As a test, this wonderful wonderful song by Mukhtiyar Ali...

पाल पुरानी जल नुवो तो हंस्लो बैठो आये   

प्रीत पुरानी रे कारणों वो चुग चुग कंकर खाए 

आज तो हजारी हंसो पावनो रे हेली...

the banks are old but the water is fresh, and the swan swoops to sit

for the sake of an old love, he stays pecking at pebbles...

Today, the revered swan is a honoured guest, Heli...

The 'hans' is traditional imagery for the soul, the body is where it temporarily perches. The banks are the same, the water's fresh and the love, for whose sake all this is played out, is very old. 

The swan is always only a guest. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Now, hoping this works:

Snit

Supremely irritated.
Isn't it annoying how anything - anything at all - rapidly becomes about society, community, rules, demands, expectations? I have limited energy and some enthusiasm to spare and HATE it when people try to yoke it for their ends. 
bah.

Covering ground

This has been up here too long:

tough as we sound
our eyes
on the fireflies
-Paul Pfleuger, Jr.

I have been too lazy to refresh this and although there was one haiku that haunted me throughout this winter, it was too special to put up somehow. But talking of things that need to be cleared, here is the new one:

falling leaves
my friend and I
discuss clutter
-Connie Donleycott

It is autumn again and the leaves are falling. We have two Ashoka trees and the leaves are yellowing and dropping off in abundance. It is hot and dry too, so the ground crackles with the ones that are a day old, but the very top layer of the carpet is made up of softer vegetation.
My mother hated the mess they made. I always thought fallen leaves romantic and often tried to curb her zeal in ruthlessly clearing them out. If she had her way my mother would sweep the yard four times a day.
But holding house in her stead now, the leaves no longer seem that enchanting. We burnt a huge pile of them yesterday and just as the colony sweepers started to walk away from the still-smouldering fire, there was a dust-gale. It brought down a fresh flutter of gold and there was no help for it at all.

I wish my friend was here, even if only to discuss the clutter.

Sighing

...at the gulf between theory and practice.