In the Blowing Wind of Alblackica Mornings Playing the Rhythmic Consciousness of a New Race
I am the daydream–realist fiddler of dreams anointed by the earth savage petals of the Nestrat in the shadows of the dark-tanned colors of a morning rose; where you go with your backpacks in the hills on the green tumbling sides of the river falling like a sparrow in the cloud adjacent square leg of the sun; milieu comes after strong coffee beans are roasted and puffed with smoky-frills of an overdose evening, writing its songs in fair elegance for the temple of the lord in the Baquytra reptilian winter at the garden of Vasundhara; no man returns free till he listens to the call of the crow-chant mind of the desert from the dead paradise of the northern lights, waking with the Himalayan Rhododendrons in the sweet tarmac of a living pool; I am born only not to sing with my feet on the grass knocking predominantly on the heaven’s door for an answer, but to let it slam bang against the silent cloud of a million birds, to open it to the deeper chambers of the neolithic man (the man-within to the man-without) so he can drink from the flowing quatrains of the shark in the tooth-eyed eagle of a resurrected spring; the dogs are sleeping tonight in the heydays of Roberto Rossellini and the cats have gone back to their blackberry homes along the pathways of the rainfall light ;
Roger Mcnamara was waiting for me to take him away farther into that blaze of the unblinded darkness where nothing prevailed only but the Alblackica dawn in the gnomic receptacle of Savitri-mawa-Savitri; I don’t know I had a sensation my hands clutched the wheel on the highway to the stars; the time has come to blow in the wind with the purple pleasant peregrine and in the wing chaffed vision of the red-wood tree, the river knows the way, the river knows the way.
-Joy Roy Choudhury
Ref: Bob Dylan Photograph