Worship

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Worship

A Sonnet

Courtesy Priti Ghosh

It burns in me now, that fire of old.
The query and quest without name,
An urge and ardour that goes not cold.
A primal impulse, a wickless flame.

That occult fire that the Angirasas found,
Nurtured by Saraswati’s banks fertile.
Grows by each fiery limb on aspiration’s ground,
Fed by each abrasion of thought and sense tactile.

A single thought held in foreheads wide,
By minds prone as a hungry earth.
An anticipation keen as a new young bride,
A swelling love for her new adopted hearth.

All is a calm cataclysm and a dire worship,
My being on precipice like a dew on a leaf tip.