Toddler

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Toddler

Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #327

Oh to what end wilt Thou tax my brain
Dull as I am to climb the lofty heights
Of Thy philosophy and mode of action
When am frozen in awe at the very base?!

With what yardstick doth Thou measure
My poor will drooping like a dry grass-blade,
How wilt Thou equate it to a hero-fire
When am only by clay of kali made?!

Oh demand not the tapas of old
When earth was younger and hearts all pure,
Now is the clime of iron and hearts all cold
And I guard every hour my little fire.

Heed this then, all I am and all I shall be
Shall only be crawling of a toddler besides Thee!!