On banks of the swift stream stood a mansion

With spacious rooms; the prayer-hall was filled

With incense made from gums of giant trees,

And the soft tranquil breeze carried fragrance

To bowers of warm reverie. A strange

Flutter brought intimate notes to silence

In which live songs. I looked around, and saw

A new god running down the hill, be-spelled

By the green, and by the garden that smiled

Like imagination of an artist

Disclosing the secrets of things to be.

Colours were a-dazzle in his whole dream,

And to the waking sky time had taken

Rapid wings in bright purple and orange

Of the early hour. Voices of eager

Intuition drew yet nearer, and chirping

Quickened the occult’s mood. From realms of sleep

Came metaphors of deathlessness, and turned

Grief and anguish into hymns of the morn.

I was much astonished if the ideal

Could be the real when youth hadn’t yet tasted

The joy of love, rose-bud burst in beauty,

And the stars bring out twinkles of the night;

But the mansion by the swift stream at once

Became aware of an invisible

Presence, felt words are timeless, that wisdom

Is the true cause of all this existence.

Nothing seemed to matter in that renown,

Nor life, nor mortal dread, nor graciousness;

Nought all that we cherish had worth, except

The demiurge of the spirit. Amazed,

And hastening, the splendid god climbed down

The eleventh step and, as the door opened,

An optimist will walked everywhere.

I knew someone wished to grow in the house

Built by the swift stream whose course is delight.

RY Deshpande

21 May 2004