Varanasi.

The sour smell of burning ashes dances with the one of sweet incense.

The sun is high, a burning fireball, looking over a multitude of moving colors by Mother Ganga.

He sits in lotus pose inside a white sizzling brick cave, his home.

Three strands of Rudraksha adorn his sagging dark neck.

Sandal bracelets on both wrists. A metal trident by his side, symbol of his devotion: Lord Shiva. An old dirty orange blanket on his lap, Om Namah Shivaya it reads all over.

His body skin and bones yet strong, powerful from years of meditation by the sacred river.

An orange turban envelopes his matted long hair, full of the tears followers have cried over him.

He recites mantras from dawn to dusk, every day, all day. He lives in a world of prayers, renunciation, a world of nothingness that fulfills his heart.

He’ s on this earth yet far far away. His eyes focused on impalpable energies visible only to his sharpness.
A higher consciousness embraces his entire being,radiates through every pore of his tanned skin.

Peace, it says.

This is yoga.

Thank you for reading ❤️

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