These bohemians are slandering Your name,
thinking it fashionable to badmouth
You, Who seem to have left as soon as You came,
And Who created a diaspora between the North and the South.
They want to render You nonexistent
So they can make their contradictions consistent
With one another; they seek
To befuddle, with their unverifiable libel, the meek.
Ironically, the barbarians are more
To be pitied than censured, for
They try to tell apart Krishna and Thor,
And, failing to split the atom, disparage The Core.
Are they entrapped by Nihilism, surely not!
I, more than anyone I know,
Had been infected by the rot,
But never saw the tumour successfully grow
Into anything sturdy and tenable.
I have found I must be amenable
To Thy true form, whatever It be,
And allow It to gambol within Me.
Shall I venture why You, to them, are a nonentity?
Your absconding renders them blasé;
When You, the Top Cat, are away, they, the bandicoots, will play
Fast and loose with Your identity.
I'm forced to invent
Names for You, one for each of Your myriad hues.
In order to circumvent
The desolation of Your apparent desertion, I muse
On my memory of You.
But at times, when the morass thickens (the plot too),
My shoulders threaten to buckle under
The sheer weight of the blunder
You committed (cough, cough)
When you upped and left (You deserter!),
When, without a word or murmur,
You simply took off!
Your absence is oppressive! I demand
That You show Yourself -- like You did
To the horizon this morning, and
To Pandora, when she unclasped that lid.
In a torrent You will come rushing
Like the frothy waves that come gushing
To scoop the straggling turtle hatchling up
Into its foamy embrace, as it yodels, "Surf's up!"
I must thank all that I have seen, each mountain
I'm coerced to scale by the force
Of Your Will, which, with my own, I will forge,
And then head up to the source of Your fountain!