In the receptacle of
The Collective Unconscious,
That Jung Spoke of,
Is the remnant of
That glory of the Homing instinct.
Colour, creed, sex, nationality
Can never cover that up-
Alter, mutate or negate, the intent,
The instinct!
The glimmer of recognition;
The rush of blood, to the head-
And then the feet!
The déjà vu , of the moment-
Uttering what seems gibberish,
But makes perfect sense
To that one!
Plea, prayer, confession:
Each word a blessing!
Was I ever born?
And did I ever die?
Do we ever listen
To the soul that drenches
Repeatedly, in that
Stream of Consciousness?
Usha, 20 May, 2008
A stone in the river.
ReplyDeletewhat else am I?
I liked the way the lines went.
Your writings are deep.
Best wishes.
Thanx for the visit.
me have a new post.
do read.
Thanks MIP, for the good words!
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