A Pythagorus

Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #29

What riches of Spirit can I buy
With my scanty purse of mortal dreams?
How my dreams to immortality
Aspire in a twisted plot of Inconscience?

However, a Godhead in me still broods
Of his riches, though pauper seems he.
From Night into Twilight he closely lingers,
Ambushed for ever and invalidated of joy.

Though a marvel of Spirt draws close,
The soul from slumber and twilight must break free,
And all world’s pain and ignominy must it embrace
For the deathless Sun to shine of Krishna’ s ecstasy.

In me still a Pythagorus measures the universe,
While my own Godhead blissfully watches his scale.