Golden Daughter*

At the day-end behold the Golden Daughter of Imagination —

She sits alone under the Tree of Life.

A form of the Truth of Being has risen before her rocking there like a lake

And on it is her unwinking gaze. But from the unfathomed Abyss where it was buried, upsurges

A tale of lamentation, a torrent-lightning passion, A melancholy held in the flowing blood of the veins, —

A curse thrown from a throat of light. The rivers of a wind that has lost its perfumes are bearing away

On their waves the Mantra-rays that were her ornaments Into the blue self-born sea of the silent Dawn;

The ceaseless vibration-scroll of a hidden Sun

Creates within her, where all is a magic incantation,

A picture of the transcendent Mystery¹ — that luminous laughter

Is like the voice of a gold-fretted flute from the inmost heart of the Creator. 

 * Nirodbaran

¹ A mystery-picture of the Transcendent

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