I sit with beads in red and blue,
And wonder what their colors do;
Do they hold thought, or only light,
Or change their meaning with our sight?
A crimson bead may speak of fire,
Of autumn leaves, or warm desire;
Yet placed beside a festive green,
It tastes of joy and things unseen.
A yellow bead can summon spring,
The mango’s flesh, the marigold’s ring;
Or mustard fields beneath the sun,
And meals where many laugh as one.
The orange one may carry fall,
A pumpkin feast, a temple wall;
Or evening skies where daylight dies,
Yet leaves its warmth across the skies.
A green bead may be leaf or lime,
A summer field, a younger time;
It might be chutney, sharp and bright,
Or forests washed in monsoon light.
And blue—what does the blue bead know?
Of winter dusk? Of rivers’ flow?
Of Krishna’s form? Of distant sea?
Or simply blue—because I see?
We rush to say that black is night,
And white must surely stand for light;
But coal can warm, and milk can hide,
And truth refuses sides supplied.
A black bead may be depth and grace,
The fertile earth, the endless space;
A white one may be ash or snow,
Or empty rooms where nothing grows.
So color bends beneath the mind,
And takes the shape that thought can find;
The bead is silent in my hand—
It does not tell me where to stand.
Then comes the bead so small and fine,
A grain almost too slight to shine;
Yet string enough of these in line,
And suddenly a form is mine.
And then the large bead, bold and round,
With weight enough to make a sound;
Yet size alone does not decree
Which one holds greater mystery.
The little bead may bind the whole,
The larger one may mark the goal;
One fills the space, one sets the pace—
Both find their meaning in their place.
Like seasons strung from cold to heat,
Like sour and salt and spice and sweet;
Like feast-day noise and winter rest,
Each bead becomes what joins it best.
Perhaps that is what making shows:
No color stands alone and knows;
No size decides what one must be—
The thread creates the unity.
And as I string them, one by one,
I think of all we call and shun;
How life, like beads, may disagree—
Yet still make something whole in me.
–Mani