My daughter watching Chaplin
-The night’s whispers commence, their hushed tones interspersed between the flickering orbs of the sky, the autumnal breath of the earth, and the scattering leaves. She sits there, my daughter, in the way Mithra sat under the Banyan tree; or Gilgamesh, Siddhartha, or even Jesus in a different iteration. She sits there, in that same form of mindful meditation, under a white stucco sky, its small protrusions, refracting the light of flickering images. The story unfolds in her eyes, as it does in her heart; a child acts in defense of the love its known, against the intrusions of the […]