Lord!
Show me Your features,
In my each day’s moments.
Help me to till with talent:
The fallow soil
Of my misfortunes —
Unalarmed.

Pre-occupied with living-dying,
I should not lose touch
With Your presence.
From the flippant:
The richest will my poems be,
When I am in Your hands.

For sleeping, eating,
Day-walking.
Making love without
Undressing —
I need no instructions.
How is it, to retain Your light,
I need so much search?

What formal laws
Will apply to reach
Up to You —
Without losing gifts of chance?
Tell me, tell me,
O, My Lord!

Lord!
Every sound resurrects
Some noise.
Every polished deed, seeks credit.
But, You — The Maker
Of our sovereign planet:
Quiescently stand as invisible.

Do You view me,
As I write to You?
If only You could
Say so…
It would help my torpid faith:
To grow —
My Lord!

1992

Geeta Chhabra