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.