Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

Everything dies to meet dust.
Dust born in the womb of stars.
In heat and pressure which minds cannot measure.
And from dust springs the heavens tune,
A flute, a piper, a drummer, a flower.
I often wonder,
What is the state of the ultimate lover?
Consciousness?
Is the wind dead? Are the waves alive?
Do the mountains breath?
Clouds do they breed?
The dust is not the simplest form,
Yet it is far simpler than Carbons catenated to conjoint and conform.
Beyond dust is the realm of elements,
Beyond them, atoms and their particles,
We keep on splitting to find the quantum improbable,
The true lover is without a plus or a minus,
A gender less traveller she has not time on her wrist,
She is not conscious, she is quantum and yet infinite,
She does not know, yet she makes all that is finite.
Perhaps that is what the dodo's meant,
The guys who wrote the books of Hindu wealth,
When they christened god as Nirguna,
Meaning one without any traits, good or bad.