A Poem

Dank dark day, a clime of woe
A morsel morbid our ration.
Limbs of clay, in dead waters to row, 
Brimmed our cup of poison.

The flowery lure, the sweet din
Have flipped all order.
The fruit bitter, the poison wine
Confines to body’s border.

What miracle this, a tenure of hell
And its endless retinue,
By a gesture turns, can gloom dispel 
And the journey continue.

A hopeful word, a glance of God
Burnishes our feeble clay.
By aspiring wings, by heaven’s brood
We wake to a sacred day.

Picture Courtesy: Sutra Journal