By M.
SRIRAMAMURTI
In the
translucent halls
Of Thy
boundless mansion,
Thy
praises are ever sung
In choral
harmonies,
By
minstrels of legendary fame.
They tune
their gem-set instruments
And
strike sweet concords of sounds
That
swell to soulful ecstasy.
What need
hast Thou
To hear
the jarring notes
Of an
untaught voice?
Yet such
is Thy gracious condescension,
Thou art
in great delight
Since
even this witless child
Hath
learned to lisp.