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Poem

The secret hands removed the lids,
Curtains between the vision and the eyes,
And made a show of eternal reality.

The rectangular cloud-like substance,
Extended from the East to the North,
Stretched in the sky in thousands of acres,
Incredibly white, and glaring bright,
The most appealing to the parched hearts,
Cast celestial delight, pleasing to recall.
Though thousands of miles was far away,
Yet beheld I the spectrum vividly,
The phenomenon hidden to the eyes carnal.

I saw the Seventy Two clad, 
In the bright gaily dresses, radiant costumes,
Riding on the white swift flying horses,
In cheerfulness unknown to the temporal world,
In the glaring brilliance the seemed merged,
Like a reflection in the huge mirror,
Or as the enchanting fishes with coloured fins,
Swim into the most transparent still waters.

A saint standing with white long beard,
Whispered, “They are no doubt the Seventy Two,
Who stepped beyond, in the love of God,
By quenching thirst of the Sandy Land,
With the reserved blood of the innocent,
To prove faith in Him at the hours,
When conceived satanic devices came out,
To desecrate, confound the fair scheme,
And in reward He endeared wrapping them all,
In brilliance of His own where woeful,
Pangs would never trouble Them again.”

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