Who looks to whom?

Everything that has direction
has its contraflow.
The ikon whose golden frame you gently touch
painted its painter so that it might look within you.
That white-bearded man whose photo
you just glanced at, was photographed
by the Ganges’ snowy swirling waters
to be there to bless your eyes, to smile your mind.
For you who arrived, hot, dusty, saddle-sore,
the saint has waited patiently to see you become him.
For you, the whole world awaits
with answers to your questions yet to ask.

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