another old one, but what is time?

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A certain scholar of world history
whispered in my right ear: 'ego-blind,
ravenous, wandering.' Hmmm . . .
I made him disappear and drank my tea.
Then an old Kashmiri Shaman appeared,
and his voice was a soft growl:
'the trail of a man is the man himself.'
Hmmm . . . I asked him to sit down.
But I couldn't seem to wake.
And the tea was bitter.

As the first breath of dawn touched
the cool room, I heard a voice
behind me - who was this? - saying,
'you are the battlefield!'

Turning, I saw a winged soldier
playing a bamboo flute, one large tear
in a wine glass balanced on his head.

And he was a beautiful woman
as he fled.