Another Day, Another Tale

Poem — An Invocation To The Master #384

In the worn out hamlet by the seasons battered
By the living routine their forbearance dulled,
An intolerance thus far unseen made entrance
Silently declaring, “Aye, heed all a new parlance
Of being and becoming breaking new ground,
Where an ego-trace must not be ever found!
To forego the comfort of known familiar order,
To widen further the deeds of your labour.
Abandon old hope and the concession of mercy
For here is only anvil and hammer sans pity,
Through sheath of body drunk on sloth,
Through vital breath that has not depth,
The blow must reach the sleeping cell
And through its awakening disturb hell,
Shatter the fortress of Inconscience
And stake claim for His omnipotence!
Cast aside the old mores and philosophies
And clear your fields for coming glories.”
So the voice seemed to say in silence
For new charter in earnest to commence,
But a old tired whimper was duly heard
From the hamlet that was worn and old,
“Aaah, thou comest again O pitiless fire
To burn my being with thy white ire,
What remains in this rubble of me
That thou shouldst preach so fiery,
Take from me what thou yet canst,
From the smouldering ruin of this hamlet.
Appease thy hunger O famished will,
When all is eaten gorge on my void still.
Perchance then might thy will be stilled,
When the hamlet of my being is annulled.”

Oh, another day of woe births another tale
And moves heart of men in a sympathy swell,
But Thou, O Sire, knoweth all and are yet unmoved
In Thy radiance as I am in my bodily clod.

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Another Day, Another Tale