I hope not to forget
the promise of that Need
that worked its subtle ways
through the layers of a Seed.
When ages communed
via the skein of time
she was born in the womb
of a moment sublime.
Strange are her ways
that unravel as they speak
the mystery of her existence,
brimming at its peak..
She speaks through a heartbeat,
through the pain and its cure
the conscience may be shrouded;
her Self remains pure.
Struggles evolve, get variously named;
images emerge in an enticing blaze;
minds respond to this worldly game
and carry on forever in a convenient daze.
Wants, desires, dreams, fears;
as one finds fruition, the other grapples on.
The shades are plenty, confounding are the forms.
She lives realized and yet lovelorn.
A Seed is still rooted in the womb of time
resembling the one that started it all.
As branches grow out and dimensions change,
the promise resounds and keeps growing tall.
I hope not to forget the promise of that Need
that worked its subtle ways through the layers of that seed.
If the quirks of the world beguile me out
may she be fulfilled in every deed.
…… Amruta Nerurkar