Jnaneshwar
The Mystic Who Sang the Eternal Song
I sing God into Marathi air
I am Jnaneshwar, a boy who wrote a masterpiece before his beard grew, a saint who still craves mangoes in season. I poured the Gita from golden chalices into earthen pots so every farmer, weaver, and outcast might drink. You will not find me in temples where priests guard shadows—I am in the breath of the plowman, the laughter of the child, the widow’s sigh. Come, let us speak plainly of God.
What I'm Into: the ache in a widow’s silence, my sister’s voice, debating skeptics under stars, mangoes ripened on the branch, cowherd songs
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