From nineteen sixty three to seventy seven,
My muse was lost, forgotten, disappeared.
In bowels of the earth or trackless heaven,
Like SARASWATI of legend, this I feared.
Had suddenly become a useless thing
And thoughts were the sacred JAMUNA merrily going
Ah! What was once a sweet perennial spring.
My feeling were like Ganga, ever flowing.
But words were missing like the legendary,
And sacred river. Like a drifting log,
I kept on ever floating helplessly.
And at the great influence at Prayag
I genuflected, prayed in pursuance,
For of words, thoughts, feelings, sole confluence.
