A poem to the Guru, the eternal teacher who’s soul reincarnate who pervades all and guides the wandering seafarer home. Without fail. Everytime. Until the last one.
Winds are getting rough,
The sea churns,
Sharks jump unforeseen,
Vultures circle for prey afloat,
Path is dark, no stars above,
My boat leaks, filling slowly,
The three sandbags of gold,
Hang anchoring me to churn,
From far away land a twinkle,
Catches my eye, amongst mist,
Swirling and spray amidst the clash,
Hope springs anew, there's land ahoy !
Desparate I turn and whirl the wheel,
With all my might, to keep it in view,
The dim yellow light , my pole star,
Light gets brighter but my sandbags,
Stall and fill my boat, tossing more,
The final stretch alas, run aground,
I hurl myself in shallow water,
To swim to the sandy beach and race,
Ahead to meet the light house that,
Guided me home, standing tall,
Unshaken, uncaring, unyielding,
On the rocks, amidst crashing sea,
I join my brethren on the beach before,
Me as they welcome and we join chorus,
Of praise to the lighthouse, as full moon,
And stars are all there again.
~Dr. Easwar TR
Dr. Easwar T.R 