As I turned the corner I saw this man exchanging confidences with a flower tree. He had three lines on the forehead , aspiring for God. His confidences were about God, plucking white flowers from the tree’s darkness. He embraced it for God. He floated on it like a flower.
He eye-contacted me for God. My own flowers were parijats that fell to the earth ,their white faces down and their red feet up. Their feet were red like Krishna’s feet on the tree , mistaken for a bird by the hunter who shot a killer arrow at it.
But we do not have our exquisite God-children dying. From the trees where they sit playing the divine flute they just turn into God who sleeps on the milky ocean, eyes closed, under a serpent’s hood.