I had a bowl of biryani last nite.
The South Asians, they must have built the first temple of flavors, is what I thought;
What I thought as I unwrapped the assortment.
An assortment of hearty flavors.
Just as good for teasing eager taste buds,
As it was for sweeping the insides of nasal pass-ways.
Biryani connects me to my Indian roots;
Roots that I’ve both lost and found, that I have left behind in the past.
And that I hurry to meet in a distant time.
The aromas and flavors of India are, to me,
Likened to the fine crystals of the earth that activate our souls.
The amethyst is both wild and refined: taking me on a ride into the northern alps,
Seen through the iris and retina of a wild mountain goat.
But it's that much more.
Such is the sensation of INDIA and her lofty promises of adventure and synesthesia.
In a hallway abounding with India’s Aromas, the Titan and the Farmer,
They meet, they greet, they sit down as equals, and eat.
