In Ujjain:
“You choose to paint
as the cover of the book
a picture of your heart,”
I almost asked him to confess.
No words replied
he only sighed
a soft and thoughtful “yes.”
* * * *
A little boy
in short pants
is walked home by his father.
Side by side, closely
they walk.
His father, a golden, glowing saint,
holds tight his son’s hand.
The boy glances up
and fears nothing
He is not alone
on the path home.
Yet the sun is setting
as it must.
The boy will cry
as he must.
But he will walk on
and will grow
into his father’s grown-up son
But never alone
holding tight
that ever-outstretched hand.
And he did grow
and like his father also glowed
and loved his father’s family, as did his father
And like his father
taught and shared and preached
showing culture and gentility,
and caring for
and serving all others with grace.
Time passed
His body slowly aged, as it must
but inside
he grew neither weary nor old
nor stuffy nor grumpy
nor angry nor cynical.
His eyes never narrowed
his eyelids never drooped
But rather
his dreams and heart expanded
to the stars above.
He remained always alive
with a simple, warm innocence
and childish glee.
Always his father’s son
always holding tight his father’s hand
never alone.
And now the sun has set again
as it must
at its ordained time,
and although the world cries,
dulls, dims, yet
a great son
of a great father–
inside always small–
but never alone,
hand in hand
with Prabhupada
has journeyed home.
Source: http://www.dandavats.com/?p=87375
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