The Mother

An endless birth from mute Eternity
Within Thy Bosom dawns at Thy Will supreme.
Thy blissful Touch on all the limbs of earth
Bestows a thrill of joy, unknown, extreme.

In Thee is hushed, O Mother!
our empty cry.
We are Thy stoic sons of the fire-pure way,
Firm-poised in dreadful hours of earth's blind drag;
No more the harrow of doom shadows our day.

Proceedest Thou across the path of Night
With Thy Flame-white Love to change its face and fate.
Thou art the matchless fruit of Thy cosmos' seed;
In Thee the key of Transformation's gate.

— Chinmoy (1955)