The Breeze

First in, then out. He found it needed
no practice; even consciousness
was not required. Arrived a day,
a day of windless heat, when breathing,
he saw, breathing was all he had.
“I am but breath and nothing more.”

Upon his bed he’d lain, and breathed

an exhalation so complete
it was as if the world had paused;
and at its end he felt a peace.
“This is not death, or life’s release;
this is myself revealed to me.”

And through this strange epiphany
he learnt that things became themselves:
that some were storms, and others shade,
thunder, rain or ray of sun;
but he would not be one of these,
for this is what he was: the breeze.

And sometimes I remember this,

when on my skin I feel a kiss
of air, a breath of wind, a soft
and unassuming touch, and hope
that when at last I am myself,
I’ll see that I, too, am the breeze.

(28^th July, Ban-ki-Moon-dels-Asperger’s)