A flute awaits....

Away from Home,

in the lap of his Gurudeva,

this slave was.

Falling, failing, and fraying.

His Mere Grace,

steered this unworthy ship

to the shore—A beatifying Home!

There, the slave is.

Without his Gurudeva....

Yet, always, with his Gurudeva!

Experimenting the Lessons,

his Gurudeva's presence,

seeped in him.

Melting in the Grace,

his Gurudeva's lamp,

lit in him.

Words become wordless.

Thoughts become thoughtless.

Moments become momentless.

When this slave thinks of His Grace.

When this slave inks in His Grace.

How fortunate!

This slave was.

To eat with Him.

To sleep with Him.

To fight with Him.

To walk with Him.

To laugh with Him.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Year after year.

Always, together!

Now.

This slave is,

in a dreamy Home.

Where his mother embraces, affectionately.

Where his father smiles, gracefully.

And his life flows, peacefully.

Now.

This slave is,

in a greeny Home.

Where the Moon, the Sun, the Stars, and the butterflies,

play hide and seek by the window.

But.

This sculpture longs for its Sculptor.

This flute longs for its Music.

Leaving this sculpture ashore,

the Sculptor has gone, alone, to the sea.

Leaving the flute, alone,

the music has gone to a land by the sea.

The sculpture is awaiting,

for its Sculptor to breathe life.

For, only He can breathe life!

The flute is awaiting,

for its Musician to play.

For, only He can play!

My heart cries....

My soul longs....

My eyes yearn...

Come back, my Son.

Come back, Home.

Come back, Soon.