Across fields and mountains where rivers run

In the magic of human greatness, swift

Like a song, where unexpected days drift,

There orange and gold dazzle of the swan

Soars in its magnificence which none can

Glimpse but only he who with a prescient gift

Receives in his mortal eyes visions that lift

His deathfulness to the sight of the sun.

Winging day after day, from height to height

It brings to me a fire that sets aflame

Every bit of my smallness, the very cells

Opened to the chant of its love and light:

Whatever carries for me its joy, its name,

In it my soul orange-goldenly dwells.

RY Deshpande

6 May 2009