You diverted rivers to my eyes, as I wouldn’t cry. Force-fed me as I lacked taste. Skin and bones, candle in the wind. Held me upright like a puppet, spineless. To thank you for letting me live is not enough. I must live.
An old, jagged blade, that is what I must become. Born in the hands of the blacksmith, seeking death. To be hanged on the wall like an ornament, I would rather hang myself. My shining surface, its illustrious mirrors – a mosaic, breaking off, one by one. As I strike like a leash at another hissing blade, I would rather fall apart than succumb to rust.
Covered in ash, hair dishevelled, pollinated by the smoke of your fire, I resemble you more with each passing day. Father, perhaps we might even be related. Shaping me in your image – one that I have never seen, unbelievable. A bhakta springing from a jnani? Who are you, really?
Digging a hole to the center of your world, my arms acquire strength. Shovel bent and broken, a fear of waking your anger. With every inch inched forward, striking rock. Yet again. I have given up a million times already, throwing myself to the ground, but your worms won’t eat me.
Stand up. Increased thousandfold.
You are my son.