I’ve loved You before but not how I love You now… India, soil of my bones: song of my soul. Heal my darling One who birthed my verse, my hunger, my thirst… Digiart.RN…Stay safe. Be loved. Don’t be suspicious of love. It’s all we’ve got in these days of war and crime and lust for hate. You are my Beauty, my core. Don’t leave now, don’t change. Please stay, don’t change what You taught me when I was growing. Don’t go away, into what could so easily re- arrange Your face ..India: Blood of my pulse, my breath, my core: only You know who You are, in the skin of our Dust, our streets thick with stories only You sow.Here the rich the poor the seeking living dying breathing decaying flowers, bloom –here distinctions, colors fade retrace our tiny large rooms. Here we congregate, we sing we dance we laugh we pray we say we are humans, we are one; oh I’ve loved You as a child, but its nothing like how I love You now…. Yesterday.…You are every woman in the street, You are the aroma of things that reek the justice of the meek, the strong, the wronged, You are the joy of waiting garlands, the tears of our fathers’ mothers in lanes ‘neath these pavements we walk, who knows what lay beneath here, eons ago…? Flower vendor …Who knows what root these flowers know,Who knows where they will go?Where do lilies and mogra and champa bloom, what river drew its dewWhich mountain fed its springWhat hands untiring, wrapt each in cellophane and string… from which field of jute, or factory of human hands, from homes I’ll never see, but they are You, and me, entwined as if we breathe the same air, as if we eat from the same field, we do we do, why then do I now & then ache anew;I was once a child, now I’m grown, I know how a mother knows the things she doesn’t know but feels in her bones, in all the mist of dust, there is love, whatever else goes, there is the deliberate stubborn existing persistence of Love.