The “Jungle” and the River of my Childhood

The “Jungle” and the River of my Childhood
as felt under five years of age

The huge, giant trees
the dense, tall undergrowth
my jungle, my playground
so familiar – but from where?
why do I feel at home here?

Lying on my back
and watching the bending-bowing branches
the leaves as they are swinging in the breeze
imagining their aim
in growing toward and into the sky…

Staring into the air under the welkin
and observing the particles so quickly moving –
shifting, disappearing, reappearing,
even when unnoticed, constantly appearing

Watching the cloud formations
as they change
their lofty migration, their lazy passing by
imagining being at their speed
reflecting on their slowly unfolding shapes –
what they look like or  how they look alike

The bushes bending down onto the river
the extreme beauty, tranquility
thriving independently from us

They – all the green – grow, survive and flourish,
live peacefully in abundance
without the “superiority” of humans

Gentleness
Graciousness
Majesty
Generosity

And the Sun with its colours
painting the sky

The tremendous details so perfectly and
carefully planned and operated …
the creative, orchestrating power behind
is the object of my reflection, admiration and appreciation –

Here I feel good
playing in the sand
while the river is graciously passing by
making  a different density and consistency of mud
what fun for the little hands of a child

Lying on the hot sand
letting the sun dry my body
allowing the heat of its rays to penetrate deep into my skin
through the flesh into my bones – piercing, creeping
so wondrous, so delicious

Then running into the water to get cooled and wet
then lying back into the hot sand
to get dry again

Staring into the sky
so big is the silence
only the moves and sound of the birds and animals
residing on the trees or under the bushes
and the echo of their noise resounding between
the tall protecting walls of mighty trees
give a mysterious depth to this silence

Sometimes the gentle, distant sound of a sport aircraft
and of those pulling up the gliders
further stimulates my wandering mind:
where does that one come from,
in the endless sky, where does it fly?

Sometimes the gliders would fly to our horizons
so that we can marvel at their soundless, elegant,
meditative floating on the clear, cloudless,
peerlessly glowing sky
and we imagine, to be up there
what is it like?

Gazing at the big, calm, majestic body of the river
as she is passing by
end – less – ly
imagining in pin-drop silence – where she is coming from
cease – less – ly

The animal and plant world she is living with
the lands and landscapes she has visited so far
the people she met
the joys and sorrows she is given
her power indomitable
her defenselessness
her treasures are

How vulnerable in her calm
indomitable in her rage
o river Tisza,
how beautiful you are

Catching the glittering lights on her surface
attempting to grasp her smile
or watching the raindrops hitting her soft skin
creating the dance of countless rhythms and rhymes

I try to fathom her fathomless being
her source and goal
her birth, her comings and unending arrivings
the endless walk of selfless self-offering

But
just
humbled am I

Kripāmaya
03.03.2011, Geneva