I’m sick of living, Mother, sick. Life and money have run out But I go on crying “Tara, Tara,” Hoping. You are the mother of all And our nurse. You carry the Three Worlds In Your belly. So am I some orphan fallen out Of the sky? And if You think I’m bad, Remember, You’re the cord connecting Every good and evil And I’m a tool tied to illusion. Your name can blot out fear Of Death – so Shiva said, But, Terrible One, You forget all that, Absorbed in Shiva, Death, and Time. Prasad says: Your games, Mother, Are mysteries. You make and break. You’ve broken me in this life.
Posted on: Sun, 15 Sep 2013 21:44:56 +0000
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