White Valley

By MJ Dally

When Baba left for good,

bequeathing unto me,

his library of grand books,

with shining leather spines,

and a million cherry-red

and liver-brown volumes,

I was perhaps too young,

to understand why he took a bullet,

and bled into the snow without protest.

But as I grew older,

I realized his protest had been,

as grand as everything the books,

had taught him, and had been,

his very presence there on that hill,

shielding so many mirandous things,

and people, even ideas and messages,

from the bullet, with his own insufficient body.

At first, I missed being tugged around,

shown yellow and magenta tulips,

of the valley we called home,

told unforgettable snippets,

of endearing facts about every bit of grit,

of the earth, every green blade of grass.

But in some time, I found Baba again,

in his library; not as a ghost,

or a voice, but just a visceral instinct,

I was sure he was inspiring each time.

On some days, he reached me,

in the strange silence that lapped,

all the universe, so heavy,

that it moved things;

perhaps a book that fell off a shelf.

I would search for the sense,

in the words that had just found me;

and Baba's instinct would guide me there.

Always so absolute and rich,

always mighty enough to sow a new seed,

in the barrenness of my mind,

that had befallen after he passed.

I knew these seeds carried enough life,

and formidable vigor,

to bloom into Sequoias of ideas,

and romances, bearing divine white flowers,

of bravery and ultimately, sacrifice.

And in some time, I knew these petals,

would eventually wither off me as well,

as shredded garlands saluting my choice,

to repeat what Baba did;

Write poems of revolution,

in the ink of my blood on the frost,

so that everyone else,

could see the message clearly,

and a much needed legacy would be born,

where we lay slain.

A page upon a book read "Shoshin";

like Baba once narrated.

He had said I should never shut,

my eyes, ears or soul to what life,

was trying to tell us, every moment.

He said, the prediction was beyond us,

as to when the great epiphany,

that would liberate our people,

into real life, in it's dignified fullness,

would reach us.

Hence, to stop listening, he said,

was not a choice;

Not even when we have turned seers,

who decipher all enigmas,

of interconnected histories and futures.

Not even when we have learnt all books,

written by all men that ever lived.

Baba carried me over his shoulders,

on some mornings, and would implore,

that I see the entire expanse,

of our white valley, laced with black cottages.

"Isn't it vast?", he would ask, to my nod.

"Every inch of it, is filled with hope,

a violent sort, that could explode,

and annihilate the whole world,

in an atomic spray,

if it isn't redeemed soon enough.

And for that redemption,

we need to stand up as one,

against some forces,

but sometimes, between them and us."

I know now that Baba chose,

to stand in between them and us,

perhaps, them and me.

But how could he think,

I wouldn't stand up or in between?

How could he think I'd forget,

anything that he ever spoke?

We were both the same men,

just born out of different mothers.

Then on, I was raised by the books,

their words my chewed food,

the implications my leeched nutrients,

and their violent hope,

the proteins that built my fibres.

I know the day cannot be far,

when I slip into his black suit,

then place a red-rose,

upon Baba's tombstone,

one last time,

and walk up to the hill that fell him.

To wait for my own bullet;

and I'd have an answer to why,

Baba wasn't scared to leave;

"Shoshin", again;

Perhaps, the great act of learning,

with wonder, continued,

even after we had met,

our only sort of infinity;

The infinity of death.

By MJ Dally