Long lostMy faults are countless, yet
With joy I see the faults of all.
I kindle thus my pyre,
Ever to hear death's constant call.
My soul is far, too far;
In fruitless thoughts of clay I live.
Long lost my mission vast;
In eyeless chasm I now must grieve.
Sri Chinmoy, My first friendship with the muse, Agni Press, 1973