R. Y. DESHPANDE
There are no mirrors for the sky,
But the unreachable tenuous blue
Is sometimes reflected in the pines;
Sometimes the countyside green
Sways in its ripple less trance;
Sometimes even the starry music
Descends like a summer-cataract
As though the calm ear of creation
Suddenly grew goldenly keen.
Deep within the atom’s emptiness
Quivers its hush of ecstasy
As if there lay in the dust of Time
Eternity ringing its silent chime.
The sky is so far away, so high,
So much withdrawn and so very true,
Indeed, it breaks forth in all the signs.