The Gate of Isis

The poet who tries to portray

The poet who tries to portray Your persona through praise
Is like a child who tries, to capture as he plays
The full moon in a lake’s rippled reflection
For thou art beyond absolute splendid perfection
The only truth is Your divine reality
In whose waters you invite us to cleanse our identity

We are lost in myriad mirages of many colours
We are blind and lose ourselves in life’s marvels
In a despairing drive to fill the chalice that lies
Empty within, we roam the world but hear not the cries
That come from our soul, which longs like a stream to return
From whence it once came, the mighty ocean, we learn
But slowly because of the delusions of the mind
And often have not the courage to see we are blind

Thou art beyond Mother, splendid perfection.
And surrounded by a mist of illusion
But thou hast to your aspiring pilgrims imparted
The secret to navigate thru the mist uncharted
Even by the gods, You have shown your pilgrims
For ages lost, the temple of their dreams
Your magic illuminates the blackest stone
And it then begins to shine with a light of its own
Your compassion has given us sight and your patience
Has allowed us to see past our ignorance
Within our souls, Your reality
Becomes our true identity
And that space where god and his child meet
to become one, is the temple where I worship my mother’s feet.
The Aspiring Scribe