Mother Maya

And one more toy she gave to her cry-child, Who, not a look and wailed ever more still To grow restless, disconsolate, more riled, But as moms do, she knew well what was ill, Maya— a cosmic ploy, men to illude, That spreads in mortal’s path a pile of toys, And hopes, man stays wise, virtuous and good, That, he learns to ferret out fragile joys. Irony is: her love we fail to see, As light transcends darkness, truth gets entwined In clouds of ignorance, just as in sea Water gets one with waves, and man purblind Of truth. Only when all ceilings you tame, You find, ceiling and floor are one and same. _________________________________________ Sonnets | 07.01.2012, recast July 2023|