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Genealogy of the Mahatma

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We Drink from the River of your life
Flowing through many land,
With rich loam inbeing,
Informing, becoming,
The Wine of Truth

Through chromous horizons
Triumphal constellations rode
With unmatched horsepower
Down wide avenues of delay,
Where there reared, at the sound of     trumpeting,
A hydra-headed bast of despair,
Whose tail draw of the stars;
And the ram and the he-goat locked horns
In the fearful eyes of the drivers,
While the three states of being hung
On the crucified sir

The music of evening permeated the garden,
Odor f sandalwood sang, petunias chinod,
In the enclosure red the rose

The afternoon was theirs
The fast being broken
They were preparing to give thanks
To pray for the Apparition of Peace,
The temple would never hold the prayers

Sainthood hovering above hip head
Across the grass moved
A small frail man
At the irrevocable timeless moment
In the Garden of New Cothsccano
Coming to meet the betral fire
From Those smoke would rise
His phoenix word
See how his blood streams in the firmament
The trinucleate vessel overflow

Ah, Mahatma, you the symbol unassuaring;
Giving graven in the mind;
The open palm for syllables of fire;
Dissolving fingers
Writing indelihly upon the Indian afternoon
Your winged word, "Ahissa";
Heroically it lingers
Riding upon the back of the sky;

Which was the instrument and whose the choice?
Can we speak this os one
Whose every not was choice,

Led to this hour?
Shall we choose wisely whom, now and here?
Everywhere that children Doctor
The petals of their innocence?
For these teachings are
As non-sectarian an hunger,
The scattered leaves of all the universe
Float through the mind unbound.

From the quick thirty-eight,
Accumulated hatred and misunderstanding,
Hard pieced in the mall load of dissent,
ifade its rat tat tat;

Three drops of anful Truth stained the green 
Beside a crumpled rode,
A little worm of smoke hung of the air And was sone.

Burst into the golden butterfly of love;
And the frail him that fluttered to forehead
Touched to flower that afternoon
The Springtimes of a new age.

Pence, Immortal, Being,
In Union conceived
It was a good Friday that it happened.
This parting, this dawn,
This flame that rose,

The heavens opened, even as stephen said,
Will and Deed, one,
The Morning star was here.

Sacred River blessed to sea of class.
Stood the Guru,
Vertical as a tree,
Shedding flame leaves at Harvest,

The ashes stir.
Now a gray rustling of wings
For the foreheads of men;
And the war of ideas to be won,
Only by the lifted man of your farewell
Non violent, angelic, evangelical,
Bapu-ji, you are claimed by the ages now,
You whose word could federate the world,
Whose way could morally re-arm mandant.

Sweet and bitter is the open book,
Whose leaves are for the healing of Nations
Hearing the Trumpet, will the people come?

I lift a white carnation
From the feet of your bronse benevolence
And weep