THE EXPECTANT
BY D. R. BENDRE
Not alone
in lonely splendour is the infant soul awake,
Still
asleep and yet awake is the infinite Mother for its sake;
Stars
a crowd in its tiny firmament; the star that is its sun,
Shines
refulgent, shines eternal, and the final fight is won.
And
matter is its shroud no more, but a brilliant robe of gold;
The
moon that is its mind in darkness is no more icy cold,
And
its eyes like planets roll, rotate, revolve their constant round
Though
life (immersed) its rainbow colour enfurls, the soul its self has found.
Oh,
narrow way, entrap us home where unending ways centrate, begin,
Where
lives harmonise and chords concord beyond all clamour, beyond all din,
And bodies form, reform and shape
freely moulded like a baby toy;
Though the fire-baths of pain and
suffering our iron feels more its polar pull
And breaths electric magnetise the
field: our being looks empty and life gets full.