My Own Eden

A poem

Full is the root

Ripe is the fruit,

Whose wine I’ll not dilute

Here in my own Eden.

Wandering through

The fields of green,

Cloaked in a dewy sheen

Always shining,

Never mean

Here in my own Eden.

Even at the height

Of darkest night,

I will not succumb to fright

Bearing the torch of Atman’s light,

Here in my own Eden.

Like Adam

My regency be not complete,

Until my queen I meet:

We shall not reap

The seed of deceit,

Here in our own Eden.