Her Grace

Poem — An Invocation to The Mother #7

Am now upon the great shores of time
Where break the waves of passing hours,
I hear its poignant music’s rhyme
That an unfathomable mystery pours.

In every breaking crashing wave I hear
A pleading of this age in agony’s couch,
Crowding with laments the daily air,
“Of woe we have surely had much

And now a pestilence must brutally nudge
The scale of life towards the abyss,
The deeps we forsook with hardy trudge,
What man or daemon can intercede for us?”

Against the earless winds I replied back,
“No man nor daemon can this foe defeat
For it thrives by an accrued ill-will dark,
Direct thy cries to the Mighty Mother’s seat.

For Her will’s force alone can efface
The root and sinew of this villainy.”
In a howl they answered with grimace,
“Oh how must we earn Her company,

We who know not Her face or name,
How then must we bid Her grace?”
Said I, “From antiquity its been same,
The method to summon Her force;

Plunge thy will-hands into thy breast,
Seek in thy passion’s rubble the flame
That ever burns most pure and blest,
Nurse it then to a blazing rich form.

Besides the conflagration thou do stand,
And invoke by these words as I say,
‘Hail hail O Goddess, O Force of flaming red,
Mission Thy troops to descending slay

This menace that auctions us unwilling
To the realms of death and disease,
Heal our realms by Thy will shining
And shower all Thy curing succours.’

Such must be thy pleas aspiring,
To summon Her whose glory all worlds sing!”

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Her Grace