The Futile Struggle

That struggle to bring Her into form,
That sense of awe,
That feeling of likeness,
That solace in heart,
Is a futile errand.


Each time I attempt to put in words,
That inspiration, or that ecstasy,
Each time I try to bring into color,
That wish, that dream,
Each time, I try to sing
That unsung desire.
All what comes to form,
Is not that inspired in the first place.
All in the world of form,
Appears just a metaphor of
The real Invisible.


I think with awe, about the masters bygone,
Who could bring into reality,
Their love, their vision,
From the labyrinths of hidden darkness,
To the light of the day.


Why then I can't carve out my Love,
That inspiration, that enchantment, that Divine,
In my poems, in my song, in my life?


I know the struggle is futile.
But I shall keep trying.
May be this is what life is for me.
Being in the journey of a disciple,
Lovelorn for the Ideal,
Trying to see her in my poems,
Trying to feel her in my songs.


For one day for sure,
Before I cease to exist in form,
Before mingling into the invisible again,
May be I would have found her,
My Ideal, My Lord.
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