Doer

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Doer

A Sonnet

Courtesy Priti Das Gupta

I become many, all leading to an empty sum.
My script turns on itself, negating each thing done.
An age of toil is day, uncoils itself by night’s end.
By this undulating sway, is my becoming patterned.

I am swarmed by a legion of forces inimical,
In thought & feeling and dream subliminal.
I seem planted on a bed of fear, 
And hedged by the promise of disaster.

Through all these am held aloft as if by a miracle,
I wake and pray and work my role in this spectacle.
An unfamiliar grace manoeuvres me through,
From edge of precipice and every narrow groove.

I have sundered bonds with the doer in me,
I gaze within as an outreaching tree to its Mother-Sky.