Birds of the Boma

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80 wings beat, presence called by a dispersed orchestra of 40 organic chimes
Rippling over landscapes
Peaks which rise and fall out from the silent gaps in time
As they come and go so freely
I sit trying to let them teach me
To let go of what I once called mine

I am the bird and I am the hand
But possession is not something this life will understand
A bird like sound is not to have and to hold
Like a statue turned cold
For it will melt like snow before you learn to let go
Then the burns from the ice you held with all might
Will be all that’s left to try and grasp tight

Izak Buys
Buddhist Retreat Centre, Sept 2017

© Izak Buys