Small are its leaves, round, bright green.
Beige is my colour, rotund, golden wheat and cream.
Thin, fragile, the twigs run down the plant.
My bones strong enough for a kick climb down the shunt.
The brown twigs part several ways,
My brown, sun kissed limbs hang loose beside for days.
The roots go down, spread across the ground.
My roots are deep, deeper than the basil mound.
The air kisses the plant, keeps away from wrong.
Wrong thoughts, wrong minds, wrong tongs.
I smell that very air, cool, calm, I hear gongs.
The light mind, without thoughts seems light, sing song.
It’s odd when we consciously keep thoughts away.
It’s even when the mind cools down faraway.
The questions are gone.
The answers often mourn.
The women no longer exist around.
The men no longer surround.
The world wants to see her in cages, in pedestals.
Or, would it be happy seeing her amidst dirty rentals?
They try to tear her open, but she would wither,
Long gone much before they can plant her hither.
The conscious emblem of purity,
The unconscious realm of surety.
The subconscious realm of duality.
All gone in minutes away from reality.
The plant withers and so does she.
But both do not mourn it nor see
beyond their lives, their growth, their ruined tree.
Laughing softly the moon brushes the wind.
Swaying it like the waters in the meadows kind.
The brown withered plant still is holy basil.
The woman torn, tattered and dry is still the holy basil 🌿.