Mira with Sarcasm

Someday you’ll think of me, Rama, as you wander, detached.

Holding a posture, he sits quite still,

 just like in the hymns.

 Rama roams, free of attachment.

I should have known he’d go off with the yoga crowd,

 leaving me in no-man’s-land.

Someday he’ll remember.

Coming or going, he doesn’t show up.

 Who can call a yogi their friend?

Mira says, love, Lord Who Lifts Mountains:

 my mind, at least, follows your footsteps.