Flower Children

They come from the West
Where robots reign,
where spirits droop
under spiritual straih.
Victims of broken homes,
disconsolate and discontent,
failing to find life’s intent,
they seek refuge in cultures strange
which stress the harmony of nature and man.
When the muezzin
calls the faithful to prayer
from the minaret of a mosque,
they sit and watch
the glory of the setting sun
radiating Allah’s abode,
wondering at their destiny strange
to wander in alien lands.
The vesper bells in a nearby temple,
the soul-stirring resonance of a conch,
awaken not their sonmolent selves
to a sacred song.
They gather their weary limbs and restless souls,
to seek sojourn in sordid hotels.
They haunt the hallowed land
where gopis dance to an eternal tune,
sighing and singing,
thirsting and pining,
for a sight of Krishna,
whose appearance seems not imminent.
Come, Lord! Come!
Lead the forlorn folks to self-realisation,
            Tat, tvam, asi.
Open their third eye to experience divine,
            Sat, Chit, Ananda.
Faded jeans, unkempt hair, swollen eyes,
reflect their strange plight.
Smoking hashish, marijuana or hemp,
Singing and sighing,
Loving and forgetting,
like prisoners in a concentration camp.
Psychedelics promote euphoric swell,
A false samadhi, a schizopherenic’s hell.
Non-attachment - the way to grace,
Rest illusion, a false escape.
–Kulwant Singh Gill