The final vestiges of ego unthreading

themselves as he lay on his bed,

watching his flesh separate from

his breath, without flinching,

he let die what seemed dead,


and still, he watched, finding

himself perfectly endless,

the little i having fled,

leaving only spaciousness,

silence swimming round

in his head, and the name

of his father graven into

his chest, as he rose,


sixteen years old, and mad

for his Master, the mountain,

he took off down the road,

barefoot, just a note to his

family amidst his schoolbooks,


foodless and famished for God,

whom he thought would leap

down from a tree and besiege

him, but it had already happened,

God himself implanted in each

cell of his being, no longer boy

but divinity supreme.



                                      July 17, on the occasion of Venkataraman’s awakening

Leave a Comment

Send this to a friend