Incarnate

Of my forms there has been and is no end,
How wilt thou of human mind comprehend?

The bright bloom of prideful rose,
The hand that rends it to muddy close.

The Sage’s wisdom on burdened brow
And thundering twang of warrior’s bow.

The sweet blush of a surprised child,
The coy glance of a hero’s bride.

The errant Rakshasa’s wrathful might
And too the root of his ruinous pride.

The cycles endless that fall and rise,
With close and open of Brahma’s eyes.

The high lotus on which he is seated
And the navel upon which it is rooted.

The icy seat on peaks of cold Kailāsh
Beyond all time and storm’s whiplash.

The august face, musing, silent,
He who heeds the fallen’s lament.

The musing poet of vacillating mood,
And Muse who dishes inspiration’s food.

The stone’s adamance, silent and crude,
This gentle canvas for a chisel to brood.

Fortune’s wind for prepared sails,
The bellowing storm that wakes all wails.

Seasons are my moods Nature feels,
Harsh summer, indifferent winter, spring that heals.

Am the Sage’s silence and the Seer’s vision,
And their words that proclaim my mission.

I am the scale ordering beats of Time,
Measures of space and all that is sublime.

I am above what is incarnate within Me,
In all is the seed of My divinity.

How this I become and that becomes Me,
Is all thou needest know of My mystery.

Poem