You too found Him all attractive,
And your thoughts of Him you called Leaves of Grass
For His green handiwork bends beneath His Feet,
And you knew well those leaves of life
Transpire from the breasts of the dead.
Those leaves of grass for you
Were tokens designedly dropped by the Lord, His handkerchief,
"Bearing the owner's Name somewhere in the corner,
That we may stop and look and say Whose?"
And those Leaves of yours, dead Greybeard,
Were leaves you dropped so graciously for me.
I first found them ten years ago
When at sixteen, on the Atlantic beach, the Florida sands,
Beneath the baking sun I read
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
And marveled at it all.
And today, in Golden Gate Park,
The Great Camerado spread a carpet
Of young April grass,
And we sat upon the delicate leaves
To sing to Bhagavan, His Song of Myself.
And looking at the grass,
Shining radiant, green in the sun, I thought
Of Time and Life and Death,
All the living and all the dead,
And chanted Hare Krishna
Just to feel the cosmos vibrate,
And feeling a sudden terror
When it did.
Just when I feared everything would pop,
I thought of you,
Who "smilest content at death,"
And chanted much louder
To see His light and leaves of grass
Play before me, an endless carillon, endless miracle.
Then I felt giddy with joy.
How lucky I am, camerado,
To have such a great friend like you
Reach across the century
Just to comfort me.
Hayagriva Das Brahmacary