1
Oh ever in love! reviled as moonstruck lover, of no use,
the chosen minstrel of the muse,
born with the gene of a soul possessed.

Your home in groves and glens,
not in kingly mansions,
you drink at the Muse’s Fount.

Leave behind when you depart
the priceless legacy of exquisite art,
churned from the ocean of the heart.
2
You are the true grand sire
of the land, air and the sea,
the knower of inscrutable mystery.

Beyond the world’s diurnal rounds,
attuned to music of soundless sound,
in heart of silence deep ever awake you sleep.

Your dominion reaches into far of heavens,
inaccessible even to rays of the sun,
You pitch your tent on eternity’s shore.

On wings of poesy you fly
faster than light to black holes,
even to inner recesses of soul.
3
Shunning ignoble pleasures
you prefer to live like a recluse
lost in worship of the muse.

In and out of heaven’s floor you run
weaving webs of starry chime
soulfully sing the truths sublime.

Your poesy breathes the Nature’s fragrance,
wears a glow of a virgin’s innocence,
immaculate sans any blemish and stain.

Pan-like your creations you clothe
in the loveliest of images and sheaths
as if they were your beloved’s wreaths.

You put on the colouring of imagination
on all what comes under your piercing ken,
to surrect a better world for all men than what they are born in.

The whole world is but your home,
the sea is your bath, waters are for navigation,
woods and rivers but retreats for contemplation.

This entire earth by birth is yours
your perch is above the world’s vanity fair
you rue the sad lot of homo sapiens.
4
You fun and frolic in ocean of snow,
in freezing cold and chill waters that flow
with choiring warblers you swaying sing at morn.

When the day meets the night in hour of twilight
all over the space you go planting the stars,
in the gloom of night you dream of dawn.

Across blue heaven hung by dark gray clouds
you make a bridge with ropes of rain,
become the prop and anchor of every storm-tossed.

When utter darkness descends, not a glowworm gleams,
you’re the beckon for the stranded and forlorn,
the lode star to the ships strayed on the high seas.

You weave vesture of light and sound,
for spheres with transparent bounds,
go greening gardens of voices in gloom.

Oh ever in love! nestling in warm embrace of eternal calm,
oblivious of the march of fleet-footed time,
you hold eternity in your palm.

(YAYATI MADAN G GANDHI)