The Butterfly Birth

Motionless, she’s still, mute, stark
In gloom and silence underground,
As if into the grave so dark
Dragged yet by the Time’s noose, deathbound…

But in the womb of Mother earth
A breath thrills deep of her mutation —
The flame alive of a winged birth,
The clay’s divine transfiguration:

In that dumb chrysalis of sleep,
In that stark crypt stiffened, imprisoned,
A star grows from the dark dead deep,
A moth of light newborn envisioned:

Suckling the sun-hymn the soul sings,
Cell after cell join up the dire
Fight with death-night to weave the wings
Undying with that prayer-fire:

They sing — and spread the light awing,
They sing — and knit in verse supernal
A face and flesh of shine, they sing
The flame-song of the Bard Eternal

That She can rise from the dead dream
And break the crystal death-cage mortal
And blaze a winged Soul-Sun supreme
And fly the Butterfly Immortal!

The Mother’s Mahasamadhi Day

Ritam Melgunov

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