Running swiftly through the quiet of dream-sleep
Where new birds drink surreal drops of fire.
Cool waters rush variedly in that calm
Of garden filled with pearls and onyxes of song.
No flowers and golden-red apples of thought
Springing from the sweet-scented soil of night
Bedeck the road, but past the frill of light-and-shade
Sometimes is seen the phoenix of vast and fiery wings
Beating its way untraceably through vision’s sky.
Who knows the home of this utter loveliness
Where space is terminated and time comes to a stop?
When I sit in that orchard of meditation
Viewing the sun-brilliances of its play
It becomes clear: what gravitates the urge
For the forbidden fruit is the sound of self.
It is because from knowledge ignorance was born
That
RY Deshpande
7 May 1977