My Guru died,

Not in an ashram
nestled in Himalayas,
nor in the house
of a rich patron
He died on the street
next to the garbage dump
across the street from my house.
On the same spot
where he begged for years,
his leprosy finally eating
into his vital organs
He never spoke
except with his fierce eyes
that challenged me to look at him,
at his decaying face,
not with pity
nor with charity
not even with compassion
But with the knowing
that his rotting body was mine
and mine was his,
and all that separated us
was chance
A chance,
less significant
than a speck of dust