A Poem

Courtesy Priti Ghosh

Sadhak:
O Despair, familiar friend, with thy bag of woe.
What brings thee here, what grim seed to sow?

Despair:
Ah, the usual, a slimy doubt to paint thy plans,
Thy deeds are not of God but only blind chance.

Sadhak:
Despair, vain persistent fool,
My mind is long dead, no more a tool.

Despair:
Oh, cherish then me upon thy nerve,
To blunt any verve that should linger.

Sadhak:
Despair, by old victories blinded,
Dost thou not see my nerves are dead!

Despair:
Oh, in the physical then my habitat,
Old ground to keep my misshapen art?

Sadhak:
Long gone from my will the physical,
I move and pray as if by a miracle!

Despair:
To the heart then, my gift, to rid thee of hope,
To bar all doors that should perchance ope.

Sadhak:
My heart is a desert, there nothing lives,
Only a rare traveller fire its mood lifts.

Despair:
The will then, that station above mind,
To dam its flickering and hasten thy end?

Sadhak:
Not mine the will, when dead or surging,
For it is Hers, all my being and becoming.

But come yet, Despair, for thou hast served
My passage thus far, and so Her favour earned.

Rest now, fevered impulse darkening every born brow,
I have no need of thee and thy kindred in tow.

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Despair