AT THE THRESHOLD
Standing
at the threshold,
(As
man has always stood before,
And
will perhaps stand for evermore),
I
looked full in the face of the morning sun,
Burning red and quivering.
He
seemed to touch my heart’s core
And
kindle the languishing hope,
And
bid my soul awake
And
strive for happiness dreamt the night before,
The
joy that always seemed a dream,
Eluding
my grasp, yet tempting more and more,
Only
to leave me sad and forlorn
With
none to console nor share the sorrow
That
seemed mine and mine alone.
Turning
my dazzled eyes
I
glanced at the flaming sun once more
Who
now seemed pitiless and burned regardless of human woe.
But
the distant mountain
Stood
baring its crest, as it had always stood before,
Braving
the bright sun’s burning rays.
Serene
and strong, I knew the mountain would stand
When
at the threshold I was seen no more.
Again
I caught,
After
a moment’s thought,
A
glimpse of the sun, quivering red,
And
wondered who it was that burned!
Was
it the sun at the mountain’s crest,
Or
the desire that smouldered
In
the heart that yearned
For pleasures fleeting and visions unreal?
–M. G.
NARASIMHA MURTHY