S. PRABHANJANA SWAMI
My cygnets that my pillows breed at night
Slowly crawl into my head thence to my heart
There they rest for the rest of the night
In the morning light on my papyrus in rhyming
lines do they dart.
From an admixture of water and milk
They have the tongues to drink pure milk
Of this world of despair and hope
They have the tongues too to sing the song of
hope.
Like the winged reveries of a bride of
sixteen springs
Now my swans, look ahead and spread wide
their whitest wings
Soar high and flash through the silvery
flakes
And alight on the lofty peaks and serene
lakes.
A casual traveller or a fervent pilgrim that
sees them once
Will never forget their arresting grace and
alluring cadence
They haunt his sinews and bones and veins
And relieve him of all his twisting strains.