Hard as I try to walk
along the wind-swept trail,
fear rides along every mile—
a slip and a fall,
and the labored breath
to stand steady and tall.
Where’s the vivid red
on the robin’s breast?
From whence these scenes:
beleaguered fences and clouded, faded sunsets?
Where ‘s that rushing of the blood—
now it falters in the veins,
and brings to mind a swollen, choking drain.
But there are times
when I take more than a fair measure
of the deep blue sea’s eternal song,
and then there arises in my breast,
as clear and unerring
as a falcon mounting the wind,
some intimations of the Atma—
the all-pervading, boundless One
that stands untouched
by weapon, flame or storm,
by Time that thins and erases
all we hold as permanent.
And the wonder of all wonders!
To think I am That—
while I carve my name
into a rounded, weathered rock.
By Haimnauth Cecil Ramkirath
