the tranquility, in the spontaneous overflow of thoughts recollected in tranquility, could, as crazy as it sounds, be replaced with a bus on an indian road.

you enter, cleaving through the bustle & take a pink ticket towards attaining that sacred asana.

to avoid any accusations from the girl on the left, you bend that knee like a frog, then keep balance on your toes with the other foot to avoid the old man hanging-on behind you.

hands smell of old paint & the air is 1:1 with oxygen and sweat, yet, you are a sponge, absorbing, more so than on some stifling cave on some ancient mountain.

~Ajay
28/7/19
W

inner of Harper Collins Yoga Mythology Contest