On Tears Of Mystic Rose Poem by Nirmal Kumar Thapa

A star splintered from the galaxy

Gets crushed by the worldly industry

Then runs through the hilly trails

Stretching towards the himalayan range.

In order to meet the horizon, wakes up a dumb lama

Om mane padme humn, he but meets a flash of the cosmic truth.

All of sudden the sketch on the walls speaks alive

And there begins a drama.

Some call it an invitation to the unknown, but that was a tide in the sea.

The encounter with the great Master Osho made a revelation:

A human body envelopes the entire universe inside it.

And mystics say it an ocean in a drop!



Not all the birds that fly in the sky are falcons

The memory of those unbelievable days in Pune

That shiny morning in loneliness

And those crowing of the birds that abducted my freedom

Penetrated into my concentration, and abused the silence.

A few meditative falcons are able to seize the chickens of knowledge in the crowd

And the mysterious rose was one that wandered lonely in the sky with its pink-wings.

Disinterested in anything around, he enjoyed his own ways

Many came close and tried to peep into his life

But none left any strong impression or any special invitation;

It was simply an extra pillar of muscles and bones.

The pollens of the identity-less lives wandered to the ashrams here and there

That gradually burned its life leading towards the graveyard.

There the mysterious rose knew how pleasant it is to live in anonymity

Where he conversed with himself, and patted himself.



The images of innocent faces quivered in the memory-mirror

Specially the harsh farewell to the mother

The great soul passed through the street with the vendor's wheeled-cart

Who earlier used to drive on her car carrying her colorful dreams-

Sans co-travellers, sans relatives

Sans the assembly for the funeral prayers.

It was his drama

A thing of his right;

How long can we water this flower from the garden of existence?

One who sowed it, reaped it.

Rose from a distance but of the same land, sends his mother a gift of promises.



He knew that while the gift of that resolve was coughing in that general ward's bed

The body that stopped turning its side couldn't accept

Nor could the swollen body wrapped in simple attire lying flat on the dirty cart.

The cart kept rolling amidst five onlookers

The Rose kept sniveling in the darkness somewhere

Till tears blooming in the soil remain in the scene, they look like orphans but when they reach the soil

Again the perfection gets a shape and conscience for another life becomes ready

This was that incident

The cause of the cry was himself and the bearer of pain was himself, too

If one embraced all ups and downs with the sense of the whole acceptance, the pain's burden of any weight would feel lighter.

Murmuring in this mental state, the rose sets out on his journey.



He, a witness to unbelievable and unexpected ups and downs of ashram

All his stories

He can utter like the sheshnaga

He can hang up in his rosy body

He can write for a long time in his pure petals,

But all these go in vain-

Whether I sing in other's praise or reprimand under the false name

Both were activities without any meaning

Rather it's wise to set out to the journey to the heaven by making the bridge of the friction between two

The Rose kept walking slowly in the dark night by embracing the pure monologue

He knows that the night belongs to dew

The dew is increasing its activity in every leaf, every petal

He could listen to the dew's voice

His third eye operating with the time's battery was endlessly throwing light

And sometimes he, along the way of Sundarban, would sit silently at Budhha Grove, while sometimes by the side of a falls, while sometimes by the side of a pond

In the eyes of others but was active in himself; only he was aware of the speed of that leap

But all were onlookers, the impermanent inhabitants living in the fallow land



Day? Night?

Good? Bad?

All depends on perspective

All suffer from the inborn disease of weighing things up

By penetrating the crowd of the ones who see ugliness everywhere by observing the world through the blurry glasses

The Rose reaches the house of the cloud

By plucking the ever flourishing moon fruit, and observing and hearing the river

He drowns into the of spell of beauty

He, the prince of the tale his mother tells him before he sleeps at night

Recognizing the value of every breath like this, he makes his journey dense



He saw a lot in the world

He enacted the coincidence of Zorba the Buddha

Osho saw dream and envisioned.

He obeyed him in letters and spirit

Were it by the dance in the night light in Los Vegas

Or in the whispers with the breeze on the winding wild trails of Manali.

Only after a long journey, he realized life itself was nothing, but a journey

Neither is there a destination

Nor the summit of the victorious

They were all the shades of desires

Like the edge of the peme swirling with the interests of the worldly lamas.

Journey itself is the destination

This is nothing specific and special

But just a humming song.

Everyone has his own song

His own rhythm and the style.

Yes, this is what I want to convey them all:

The Rose undertook so long a journey to get this revelation.



In the worldly theater, the curtain falls before and after the show,

But this curtain of existence is open since ages.

It is only that we haven't been able to see our volumes and dances;

The Rose gently smiles

And offers the fragrance.

Those closer to it have already felt it,

And now the breeze carries it to distances afar.

It's time that there be a meeting not of the physical, but the spiritual ones!

Let everyone realize it-

The beauty of the mysterious Rose is unveiled to every one of us;

Come, let us experience it, and know ourselves

To live a meaningful life.


Nov.21,2013, Swoyambhu, Kathmandu