A friend called Buk

Amidst the relentless busyness of life, when the bestial burden of duty and ambitions crush you down, when the never ending bickering of social etiquette's tear you apart, you hear a call from an old friend.  A voice so unmistakably familiar and soothing.  As relieved and rejoiced as if woken up from the deadliest of nightmares, you attend to the call.  You return to a good book and sink into it.

A good book is like a mirror for the inner self, reflecting your own thoughts.  We rejoice when we recognise our own feelings, the rest we skim through, they are just gap fillers.  And in that recognition we find a friend, a friend so far yet so near, apart in time yet so living.

Like a shy girl I begin every chapter.  As I read along, there is neither me nor the author.  What is, is just the friendship untainted by any word or explanation.  And once I finish it, there is still smile on my face, relishing the after taste like that of an old smooth wine.

A good book teaches nothing new.  It only asserts that you are not alone.  In the darkest of the nights, in the most deserted gullies of the mind, truly a friend with a lamp.

haiku

spring noon
damp mountains lay still
in the mystic mist

haiku

spring rain
peach tree springs to life
with flower buds

haiku

crisp air
silver capped mountains
last days of winter

haiku

quite morning
lone pigeon flutters
from pond to the tree

haiku

nature retreat
moonlight
quiets the buzzing town