Worship

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Mother #18

Oh why must the throes of every birth
Begin helpless, wary and aimless?
In tenure of day gain a little width
Only to drown it all into night’s space.

Where gone the cord of memory
That strings the hours to a purpose?
Where gone the will for continuity
That soul’s aim in acts does express?

All of me is as a pliant clay
Awaiting Thy hands to shape its drift.
Oh leave me not to dormant lay
In this bubble of drowse utmost.

Make me worthy for worship of Thee
For what else is the purpose of me?