Of Her
Poem
Published on February 16, 2021
Of Her
Poem
“Who art thou sapling, a tendril feeble and trivial,
What business thine in this age for the titanic?
Wasted is thy seed, no becoming thine can rival
The monstrous outgrowths of horror and panic.”
“Whose careless hand has cast thee to flounder
Upon this soil most deadly in the age of iron?
Best to retract thy becomings from more blunder,
Vain are thy hours, for to aspire here is forbidden.”
After near five score years my fire made reply,
“She, the plenary muse, of unsurpassed abundance,
Cleanser of falsehood, truth-voice, the Shruti,
Of her am I, of Saraswati, here for truth deliverance.”
“She bore me from the spiring heights Himalayan,
Her charge ancient, commissioned by Him of old,
To cast off these darkened waters the dire poison
And turn all thoughts of men to a mould of gold.”
And a voice from everywhere said, “Vain flame,
Paltry issue of some surviving hope ephemeral,
Dost thou not know, many of a splendid name
Didst cast their light to perish in me, the infernal!”
And my fire said, “Oh, not of petty stars and sun
Am I the offspring, I am the Ray, the sceptred issue
From the haloed crown of the Immortal One,
Cast like a spear into the body of a human tissue.”
“My lips wrangle not for cheap scanty bargain,
Nor to commerce with thy faceless rod of fear,
All my successive births do inevitably begin
To efface the root of every sorrow and tear.”
“The One I obey, a living fiat am I of that Golden Sun,
A million pathways open to my destined perfection.”