Ancient Mind In Modern Man, On Abode Of Happiness Poem By Tirupathi Chandrupatla
"Even a small Blade of grass Finds its way Into Your hands."
by Ravi Kopra
Your hands created the grass, the grass in your hands.
The grass finds your hands or your hands finds the grass
The grass doesn't know it, not do your hands.
But you are amazed looking at the grass in your hands,
green shoots of chlorophyll carbohydrates, fodder for
holy cows of Krishna, its grains, the wheat, a handful
of which enough to feed a sad man to write happiness
of your abode, that is no abode, for your are formless
yet infinite, unborn - lifeless - but never die
know everythingwithout any brains
all powerful and yet no muscles, no life....
But the small blade of grass you did create
It finds its way in your hands
to pay tribute to you and to your hands
and the hands of a sad poet who penned a poem
on you and your abode of happiness that he now seeks
in his old age of decay when he knows he soon will be
formless as you always have been, yet powerful, merciful.
O you, the strangest of all strange things that exist in the universe,
the ancient man had to create you to make sense of his world...