When wicks a million of spiritual light
brighten ones heart what more he needs…defies
desires, ignores all woes, weeds of the blight
of hate from mind garden and denies vice.
He douses ire, abhors all earthly goals
and stops trying for worldly gains. He sips
the meads of innate muse and mates with soul
and takes pleasure in frequent inward dips.
He’s like a stoic busy with family chores
and ascetic too detached from worldly charms.
At will he shuts and spreads his inner doors
to brace oneness in duality’s fluid arms.
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He’s piety personified, humane
and cascading kindness. He is alive
to human transgressions and earthly pain
and strives to help them out of mortal hive.
A bhakth beholds beyond the skin, flesh, mind
and heart. Ignores the bizarre human sways
of good and bad. He’s blind to outside grind
and eyes his keep treading on inner ways.
He swims and welters in rhapsodic spells
chanting my names, benumbed to worldly yarn;
a drowsy cuckoo like who sings vernal
aubades, from sylvan charms of dawn, withdrawn.
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Silence becomes his language, pleasant smiles
accent and glows in eyes his idiom.
Eyes closed or open, dwells his psyche miles
away from world, in blossomed inner Om.
His inner realm his universe; his soul,
his friend, counsel, Guru and God, with whom
he chats, argues and often spats and trolls
but peeps sometimes out of his secret room.
He knows the sought isn’t anywhere else but well
within himself; like cream in milk, like reed
tootles in wind, like hidden magic spell
in Vedic hymns and like the sprout in seed.
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