Sweet as is the intoxication,
The hand begins to weave dreams,
In phantasmal, silken strands of thin air,
Dreams of metered words,
And the hand, obstinate as it is,
Waits not to approve of your disapproval,
And words in their complete totality,
Start pouring forth,
Searching a permissible urn,
Into which the secret is blown in,
Quietly, and wonderfully,
And the mind sleeps,
When the hand moves,
The ears are deaf; the eyes are blind,
The reality is wiped out of existence,
When what pervades,
Is the rule of the soul,
As it sings its composition via,
The ink of the pen,
And the audience turns out to be,
The very frenzied writer,
And when the intoxication has died,
The soul hibernates,
In darkness, or in observation,
Know the fated few,
The eyes, ears and the mind,
Resume their frivolity,
And the hand rests, having had its day.
After the command has been executed,
The servant wonders,
When and how he was ever ordered,
And in this blank wonder,
Freezing into sleepy delight and pleasure,
The pen waits forth to be,
To be that sublime medium again.
Clouds are beautiful,
But the clear sky is no match,
Wonder why life moves on in riddles,
Whose answers lie unrevealed,
Deep inside, and untouched,
Holding my senses close together,
My mind germinating into a questionnaire,
The inner voice laughs its vitality,
“That is illusion, the beautiful, fleeting mare.”