Your Heart Is More

Your heart is more than a pump.
It is a hollow vina
in Saraswati's fingers.
Your heart is an elixir
whirling out of its cup,
irradiating the meadows,
illuminating the wings
of the goldfinch in flight,
casting crimson on distant hills,
entering the immigrant's tear

as a grain of the sun.
How pearls are made?
Why don't you listen
to the hum inside your flesh?
Why don't you confess
that your mind is nothing
but the melody that rises
from your body, hieroglyphs
of smoke from a burning coal?
Whatever is happening
in your chest, don't name it,
just release the fragrance.
Why not drop your petals,
a disheveled rose,
standing naked and uncouth
before the whole garden?
The scent of you
awakens distant galaxies,
intoxicates the unborn
for seven generations.
The shower of sunbeams
falling upon you is your
formless organ.
Just stop believing in edges.
Then again, if all you want is
to siphon blood and breathe air,
that too is a miracle
vaster than it seems.