The Wayfinder of Love

When the warm winds first whispered your name, my heart stood to attention.

When the season scattered a trail of hopeful memories, I traced them like a child clutching at Mother’s threads.

Turn left or right, how does it matter with the heart for a compass?

They told me the way is strait and narrow, but there’s nothing narrow about you, who wrings out karmic excess like soap suds from the folds of space and time.

Where the world seeks comfort in its own reflections, you shatter the mirror maze, exposing the mirage that always disappoints, leaving us parched.

Where egos strive to grasp, conquer and best one another, you humble me to know that I’m nothing at all — and what wonderful blessings arise from that nothingness.

May any blessings pass through me to land at your feet; may any curses break into petals of love, showering crimson and snow upon the brows of ill-will.

Though silence was your hidden cave, love always gave you away in the end, with all paths winding up to that same unspoken mystery.

Weary, cold and bruised, I landed at your doorstep. You turned me away, solemn and mute.

Was this sheer cruelty, or perhaps had the winds changed, steeling to cast a revolutionary course?

Must the traveller become a wayfinder once more, thrown back to the tempest without a map?

If so, one must rebel as a pirate plundering for truth, not a netted fish awaiting its fate.

And just as nascent, earthy petrichor heralds the monsoon, the sweet murmur of awakening will one day descend upon burning hearts, like a cloudburst of solace.

Then, when the skies clear, a crisp breeze will usher travellers towards fresh horizons: uncharted, untrodden, yet the soul will sense a belonging.

Though each guided by their own North Star, all voyagers will reunite as one in the ocean beyond, where you’ve been quietly waiting — for their return.

Kiruthika Rajeswaran