The Language of the life
I woke… or perhaps I crossed a veil.
The stillness whispers, but not in silence.
My room… my bed… the hour is early —
Yet the light… the light is speaking.
Not in sound,
but in sacred shapes that dance upon the walls.
Sanskrit?
Names of the Divine, carved in sunbeams,
as if heaven itself were spilling secrets into my space.
Could this be what Patanjali saw —
that Yoga is not merely posture,
nor breath, nor thought,
but the golden thread that weaves through all?
Everything…
Everything is Yoga.