Sun-Oracle

Sonnet — An Invocation To The Master #361

Dull is the air that pervades my scene,
Not even despair colours the moods,
No definite aim claims its due portion,
This realm seems a field of naughts.

The zone vulgar of subconscient dross
Seems crossed leading to this dim lair
Where day is not and all is the night’s
And each becoming a damning labour.

Oh who shall know this grey womb
Where to breathe is a toil, to be a woe,
My soul is caged in body’s living tomb,
A monument of light none shall know.

O Sun-Oracle, O Prophesier of Time,
Divine for our lives one redeeming aim.

More from Inevitable Word

Inevitable Word is a pedestal for the newer forms of Poetry, Prose and literary Criticism. It is an attempt to bring into every manuscript the inevitable word and expression of the Spirit, as may be found in the Vedas, and more prominently, in the works of Sri Aurobindo.