I’m quite alert to prospects of matter

Which, day after day, grows invisibly

In the sky. Even as the galaxies storm

Through meaningful emptiness, they hurry

To the unknown. Bourneless space soon folds up

And turns into many forms which acquire

Value and sense, even desires. Objects

Though packed with trivial longings support

The spark that holds in its breast a huge fire.

Incurving faggots feed its potent joy

And, in a swift fascinating outburst,

The great mystery gets unsealed. Two lobes

Spin around a gravitational stick

And we become aware of the powerhouse

Built not at the beginning but in course

Of intensifying time. Endless suns

Pace in stupendous display of an urge

That on the long beach hesitatingly

Labours,—and in the small mind of man too.

The waves leap up, and a million planktons

Glimmer on the shore. Now no tide can drown

Their cry of happiness, no cruel hand

Pull back the swell of civilization;

In its delight death too joins painless life.

Once, ages ago, someone sat alone

On a peak, and willed in his tranquil poise

Destruction of the past. A wooden horse

Walked through the gates of history and saw

The dawning of perfection’s art, in line

And shape, and reason. The market place buzzed

With ideas archetypal, bright-robed,

Born in reality’s early promptness.

Then, in another passionate cycle,

Came love, but followed by murdering heart

Of dubious faith. Now a gold star shines

In everlastingness above the earth.

RY Deshpande

29 May 2004