I chanced upon a brown mystic
In the Thebes of old:
Clad of rubies brilliant,
A spirit nude and ecstatic.

On the rim of Life’s faraway brood
Were seen beings absorbed in silence.
One of them as if by a strange caress
Woke and drew close to my chest.

Thus spake he, “He lay hidden
Here until thou cam’st!”
I wondered what he meant,
While the mystic disappeared without a reason.

In the Thebes of now
He still lies buried,
And in the stars far beyond sight
His fathers too abide still and grieve.

Strange colour art thou,
Born of twin-mothers, red and white:
Sky wondrous still of Krishna’s blue,
But thou endeared to my roseate heart!

Thy colour drips of rapturous shades,
Wrapping heaven and earth in a blossoming rose,
And even when it withers,
A marvellous shade of Thou it becomes!

O Pink, my soul’s bridal colour,
Marry my spirit in the divine hour!

Prophet of the speech, incarnate word
Couched in rare monologues,
Which come from mystic breezes,
Like scented mysteries of thy spirit.

Prophet of the hour, Time’s emissary
Clad of the revealing moments,
Which embody the Timeless,
Like myriad wombs pregnant with thy ecstasy.

O Prophet of many wonders, Sage of mind,
One lord of speech and word and moments combined!

My mind is baffled of forms of her gesture,
A limbless dance of rapturous grace:
My mind is touched of her stupendous bliss,
A white stream rolling down into my last member.

Her gesture when in a prostrated form sublime feels,
Myriad the meaning even whilst she stands guarding
The lone channel hyaline twixt the Divine and I, bearing
Her immortality’s stamp of maternal kiss.

My heart is enamoured of her gestures of love,
A mighty note in rarefied fields of ethereal joy.
Her gestures many and numerous floating ahoy
Upon her spirit’s waters of everlasting trove.

A one marvellous gesture of her infinite many is
My body happy in a play of her vast myriadness.

An epitaph thus read of an Immortal soul
Lying tombed beneath a layered marvel,
“Here lies a brood of God, an immortal
Spirit whose visage brilliantly thrill
Of the hour to come, whence from here he shalt
Rise, in here till lie bare and motionless,
While the stars wheel around
And men perish and fruitlessly rise.”

The epitaph thus read and reread,
Until I saw the Godhead shone of it.

Thy million gestures in a tinsel of my soul,
Thy trillion-headed rapture my wingless flight!
Of whose magic wrought here, who the Magician-all,
On my heart’s white parchment embellished?

Thyself in all I see, in Thy brood I dwell,
My mind a dying moth into a butterfly flutter,
My body a phoenix from its own death rise,
I see myself in all, Thyself in me childlike thrill.

I am Thy million-bodied oneness incarnate,
In my brood all world and heaven renewed shine:
Earth’s battles into skin porous penetrate,
Her suffering turned into delight wholly Thine!

I am Thy child born with Thy radiant womb,
In which born wert Thou as my golden Dream!

A new strength unlike my old waning temper,
A splendorous godhead unlike an impassioned
Brute maimed, self-despairing, locked in the mire,
A new light in my departing twilight.
All is now a song of an unheard music,
An eternal note floating through the spheres
Of my upper mind; my mind an old relic
Still strangely fostered by streams of mechanical habits.
If at all a relic, a Spirit’s mighty ash it be,
For ever self-smeared on the forehead above the divine eye.

Belittle my run, mock my sprint,
Stampede my motions, defeat my hour!
Soul in everything, Spirit everywhere,
Unbelittled I remain, my spirit unmocked.
This Thy play, enchanting and enthralling,
My reed blown of Thy breath,
I sprint forth, earth measured of my mirth,
Heaven my happy sojourn, in Thee am wandering.
Together we run, Thou and I,
A measureless leap of our integrality.