‘Mother’ the first accented rime ,
Holds poetry on your time .
Then the buried images find reflection ,
With faces closer , sky , bird , flower .
The unconscious black board ,
Displays and hoards ,-
Sketches unnumbered of cosmic cart ,
You temporal vase , reveal your art .
Back some years ten thousands ,
What human poetry you would mend ,
Save your abstract that reads death and life ,
Your poetry itself is either a divine husband or wife .
We diverge and converge , as earth and black hole ,
And our science as poetry recognizes geometric lines ,
Ah! Poet ,-the timeless prophet in you alone shines !