The Divine Farmer
Published on October 4, 2019
The Divine Farmer
A Poem
Sri Aurobindo
An arid wasteland and barren was my soil,
It yielded nothing in spite of incessant toil.
Petty lights and pettier thoughts came by,
To waken me to purpose or some utility.
Two score years and I chanced by a Farmer,
Who cast word-seeds that my being did enter.
Minuscule were they, I knew not their type.
I let them be, without a fuss or gripe.
The seeds grew to a hundred branched edifice
A gnarled maze that crowds my surface.
The roots have dug deep beyond my own lives,
It labours without stint and relentlessly strives.
The tree has grown to crowd out me,
I can linger no more in my own body.
What would thou have me do I cried,
Shed thy littleness and climb with me it said.
My littleness I gave up and now I do see,
It is only words and words that make up me.
O Farmer, O Weaver of Worlds and men,
Forever and ever only keep me in Thy ken.
Note: Offered to the Divine Mother, on Day 6 of Navaratri 2019, by Kali’s Brood and Murli R.