On a cold winter day,
she set her feet outside.
A cloud passed above her,
and a dream was born, inside of her.
Around the clock of time,
the storm blew,
and the sun shined, gazing at her.
Poor little, who imagined the clouds to be real,
was fooled yet again,
in Thy infinite play,
when the thunderous laughter had it’s say.
Illusioned in many forms,
to the naked eyes,
unable to glimpse even a bit of Thee.
At the end of this slippery path,
in the silence,
lies no life, no play.
When, Oh Mind, will you cease and merge in Thee?