The Disciple of Time by Niscala Devi Dasi

Will Time bring me my dream, my heart,
Only Krishna knows;
“Time I am”, He travels free,
We travel where He goes. 

I cannot say “Time, bring me this.”
He fears not my appeal,
From feeble dream-state passing by,
Seeking the unreal. 

I pass by Joy, I live in Limbo,
Inwardly, in vain,
Contrived, contorted visions, vague,
Of Happiness to gain. 

Oh real Lord, real Sun, penetrating
Leaves, a million-fold;
Casting glow, intense and warm,
In spaces dark and cold. 

Oh real Lord, real One, here and now,
At one with Your Creation;
Feel You in each moving Blade,
Your cooling Breath sensation. 

Crystal dew and dew-like stones
Of water on my roof;
The roaring crash of ocean waves,
Form Words that speak the Truth. 

The ripple of Your gentle speech,
Spreads out in silver strands,
Whispering past a shadow, stark
Against the glowing sands. 

You draw in codes, expressed in veins
Upon the Falling Leaf,
You speak in birdsong, crying out
From far-washed coral reef. 

Crafted petals, from Your Hand,
Love and Wonder grow;
I waken up, from mourning dreams
Into the morning glow.