[Dr. Jamshid Ibrahim]

Could somebody read the following text and say what's it all about. I would appreciate discussing both the language and the (literary) message of the text.
Thanks and regards
Jamshid
Indian Rubies
Patti Smith
I Have ALWAYS POSSESSED a kind of knapsack, if nothing more than a piece of cloth or skin tied in a knot. My sack, worthy companion, produces, when opened, a world
defined by its contents-fluxion, unique, beloved.
This uncommon bundle has always been my comfort, my happy burden. Yet I have found it unwise to attach myself to the souvenirs within. For as soon as I focus on a certain object I misplace it or it just disappears.
I had a ruby. Imperfect, beautiful, like faceted blood. It came from India where they wash up on the shore. Thousands of them – the beads of sorrow. Little droplets that somehow became gems gathered by beggars who trade them for rice. Whenever I stared into its depths I felt overcome, for caught within my little gem was more misery and hope than one could fathom.
It frightened and inspired, and I kept it in my sack, a waxed yellow packet the size and shape of a razor blade. I’d stop and take it out and look at it. I did this so often it was no longer necessary to see what I was looking at. And because of this I can not say for certain when it disappeared.
I can still see it though. I see it on the foreheads of the women. In the poet’s hollow. I see it at the throat of a diva and in the palm of the deserter. Pressing against a wire fence. A drop of blood on a calico dress. I open my bundle and dump the contents in the furrows of the earth. Nothing – an old spoon, a rudder, the remains of a walkie-talkie. Spreading the cloth to rest upon I take breaths as long as the furrows. As if to quell the spirits; hold them from shaking and clanging.
In the ring of the impossible night. Everything elastic. The sky a deep disturbing rose. I can feel the dust of Calcutta, the gone eyes of Bhopal. I can see the prayer flags flapping about like old socks in the warm, ironic wind.
Can I offer you this bell
The whisper merchant
It is extremely valuable
A museum piece, priceless
No thank you, I answer
I do not wish to own
But it is a wonderful bell
A ceremonial piece
A fine bell
My head is a bell
I murmur
Between
Bandaged fingers
Already asleep