There are pockets of clarity
in the cold gray fog;
transparent patches in the river ice.
Like a movie, nothing really but light
but, also, a stage play,
fictional characters and plot,
local and short-lived but
underneath the costumes
real complexities, other existences
beyond the time-anchored
personalities and egos,
the disparate acts and dialogue.
What I mean is, sometimes,
you spy the thespians
under their sweat and makeup;
discern the true theme,
the beauty of which leaves you
speechless with wonder.
O child of God, Meher was silent, living
His every holy moment in absolute amazement.
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