MYROBALAN OF THE MAGI

I peer clearly at the palm of my hand,
I hold a transparant gooseberry fruit,
I hear Orphic strains hymned by silver flute.
Let's dance madly to an ecstatic band.

Get drunk on spirit scalding fire, fanned
By September's blissful breeze. Deep at root
Of my etheric heart lies an amathyst shoot
From a Great Primal Sage from an orient land.

He taught that Realisation, cool and calm
Was as clear as that fruit I held in my palm
That's the myth of Magi's myrobalan,
Sacred as frankinsence, red rose, mandrake,

Solomon's Lily, of which the Holy lamb
Of God, spake for his dear disciple's sake,
In immortal words, as part of God's great plan,
'Neither toil nor spin, for I am That I am!'