The Poet's Prayer Poem by Susmit Panda

What language is the wind's? The sky's?
What the stars'? Do I not know
That from every star supreme tales arise?
That from every quite flower there flow
Revelations wild? O give me the ear
That I might listen! Lift my low,
Languorous spirit that it might hear
What has startled silent sages, until
At once their lids, shut all the year,
Have shot open with shocked eyes; O fill
With such flashes my mind while I cull;
For how long my mind shall I till
For visions too numb? Look, The Great Hull
Spreads before me - I can't afford to be dull!