હે મનુષ્ય...
રાખ હસ્તક કે અર્પણે પધરાવ
આવ્યું છે ક્યાંકથી જવાને ક્યાંક
પકડ, મથ, પલટ દઈ તારું નામ
અહંની હેરાફેરી! શાને સ્થાયી માન?
મન માને અમૂલ્ય પોતીકી સોગાદ!
ચોડી છાતીએ! જાણે ખુદની પેદાશ!
આ અછણતા લસરકા ને ક્ષણિક સાથ!
ઓળખનાં નગારાં! શાને ગુંજવે ચોપાસ?
બુદ્ધિ માને, દીધું મહામૂલું યોગદાન!
ન તોલે કોઈ કે પહોંચે કોઈ એ સ્થાન!
ન જાણે કે ક્ષણભંગુર આ આદાનપ્રદાન.
શ્રેષ્ઠ ભંડાર! શાને સંઘરે જ્ઞાનનો ભાસ?
ઈચ્છા, વિચાર! મન-મતિ જણે હજાર!
ફક્ત રમાડતાં રમડકાં! હણે જીવનસાર.
ખોલ દ્રષ્ટિ ને ખુદની ખુંદીને લે ભાળ!
ત્યાં ભીતર! આત્મા! ધર્યા છે સત્યો અપાર...
જય હો...પ્રભુ!
સાદર...
- મોરલી પંડ્યા
નવેમ્બર, ૨૦૧૭
With raw material drawn from the outside world,
The patterns sketched out by an artist God.
Often our thoughts are finished cosmic wares
Admitted by a silent office gate
And passed through the subconscient's galleries,
Then issued in Time's mart as private make.
For now they bear the living person's stamp;
A trick, a special hue claims them his own.
All else is Nature's craft and this too hers.
Our tasks are given, we are but instruments;
Nothing is all our own that we create:
The Power that acts in us is not our force.
The genius too receives from some high fount
Concealed in a supernal secrecy
The work that gives him an immortal name.
The word, the form, the charm, the glory and grace
Are missioned sparks from a stupendous Fire;
A sample from the laboratory of God
Of which he holds the patent upon earth,
Comes to him wrapped in golden coverings;
He listens for Inspiration's postman knock
And takes delivery of the priceless gift
A little spoilt by the receiver mind
Or mixed with the manufacture of his brain;
When least defaced, then is it most divine.
Although his ego claims the world for its use,
Man is a dynamo for the cosmic work;
Nature does most in him, God the high rest:
Only his soul's acceptance is his own.
This independent, once a power supreme,
Self-born before the universe was made,
Accepting cosmos, binds himself Nature's serf
Till he becomes her freedman — or God's slave.
The patterns sketched out by an artist God.
Often our thoughts are finished cosmic wares
Admitted by a silent office gate
And passed through the subconscient's galleries,
Then issued in Time's mart as private make.
For now they bear the living person's stamp;
A trick, a special hue claims them his own.
All else is Nature's craft and this too hers.
Our tasks are given, we are but instruments;
Nothing is all our own that we create:
The Power that acts in us is not our force.
The genius too receives from some high fount
Concealed in a supernal secrecy
The work that gives him an immortal name.
The word, the form, the charm, the glory and grace
Are missioned sparks from a stupendous Fire;
A sample from the laboratory of God
Of which he holds the patent upon earth,
Comes to him wrapped in golden coverings;
He listens for Inspiration's postman knock
And takes delivery of the priceless gift
A little spoilt by the receiver mind
Or mixed with the manufacture of his brain;
When least defaced, then is it most divine.
Although his ego claims the world for its use,
Man is a dynamo for the cosmic work;
Nature does most in him, God the high rest:
Only his soul's acceptance is his own.
This independent, once a power supreme,
Self-born before the universe was made,
Accepting cosmos, binds himself Nature's serf
Till he becomes her freedman — or God's slave.
BOOK VII: The Book of Yoga 542
Flower Name: Scabiosa atropurpurea
Mournful widow, Sweet scabius, Pincushion flower, Egyptian rose
Significance: Blessings on the Material WorldMournful widow, Sweet scabius, Pincushion flower, Egyptian rose
Puissant and innumerable, they answer all needs.
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