by Dr. Ekkirala Krishnamacharya Book Presentation Overview General

Where Thy light is my presence
Where my shadow is my earth
On which I tread my path
To lead me to You and know my time
To keep me searching for my name,
Where my address is Thy abode,
Where my story is Thy drama,
Of Thyself coming and becoming,
To forget and recollect myself,
Where time breathes seasons, years, centuries.
Where space pulsates the suns, planets, souls,
To that land lead me, my Lord!

Where knowledge is replaced by wisdom,
Where words are replaced by experience,
Where becoming is culminated in being,
Where harmony, not meaning, is the import of language,
Where eternity replaced monotony,
Where change is replaced by freshness,
Where tradition is a glacier dancing in the
Ebb and tide of the ocean of intuition,
Where the Solar Arch of “My” existence
Is around, not above and below.
To that pole of this physical earth
To that one vertex of the column,
To that Mount Meru lead us, Oh Lord!

Where virtue is the priest,
Where wisdom is the feast,
Where mind is the wick,
And brain is the candle stick,
For the pure flame of intuition.
That illumines the fruition,
Which is already there,
Unnoticed as the wax everywhere,
To that Solar Pole,
The seat of the Polar Soul,
Lead me, Oh Lord!

Where labour is eased through knowledge
Only to find time to serve,
Where science is a servant
Not a master of man,
Where man is not savageous to feel
The supremacy over animal and plant,
Where the human creature is
A little angel of a sun-beam
Focussed into the body,
Where man is not above but within
The whole kingdom of life,
Where He rules not the heads
But the heart of all beings,
Where He is not conscious of his knowledge
But is sweet ripe with wisdom
Lead me to that promised land, Oh Lord!

Where wisdom is not a possession like knowledge
But an unfoldment of person into the impersonal,
Where joy is not bound by logic to a cause
But permeated as experience through space and time,
Where art is not a recollection of shapes
But a creation of ideation into formulae,
Where poetry is not an arrangement of known facts,
But a temple of glittering bricks of novelty.
To that pattern, to that Celestial Clime,
To that heaven of being created perfection,
Lead us, Oh Lord! ever fresh.