|
|
At the day-end
At the day-end behold the Golden Daughter of Imaginations — She sits alone under the Tree of Life — A form of the Truth of Being has risen before her rocking there like a lake And on it is her unwinking gaze. But from the unfathomed Abyss where it was buried, upsurges A tale of lamentation, a torrent-lightning passion, A melancholy held fixed in the flowing blood of the veins, — A curse thrown from a throat of light. The rivers of a wind that has lost its perfumes are bearing away On their waves the Mantra-rays that were her ornaments Into the blue self-born sea of a silent Dawn; The ceaseless vibration-scroll of a hidden Sun Creates within her, where all is a magic incantation, A picture of the transcendent Mystery; — that luminous laughter Is like the voice of a gold-fretted flute flowing from the inmost heart of the Creator.
NIRODBARAN
Page – 570 |
|