The Tree Of Deathless Silence' (Flute Of Krishna That Rings My Being) Poem by Prabir Gayen

'The Tree of Deathless Silence'
(Flute of Krishna that rings my Being)
By Prabir Kumar Gayen

A tree, though vast with fruits of fragrant ache,
And shade that clasps the dreams of weary hearts,
Must one day cast its golden-memoried leaves,
The hymn of blossom silences in time.
Its roots, though veined into the ribs of Earth,
Shall one day find the womb of sacred still.
All grandeur, even wrapped in verdant grace,
Must bow before the gaze of formless Night.

For what is life but breath upon the void,
A gossamer murmur on the lips of death?
This world, so dressed in music and in bloom,
Is but a veil drawn o'er a deeper song.
Each joy is brief—a wave upon the sea,
And sorrow, too, is only passing fire.
All that we hold as real melts into mist,
And death—O death—is not the end, but Gate.

In every touch of rose there sleeps adieu,
In every kiss the taste of parting dwells.
No one abides, no star, no soul, no god,
Save That which sings through unmoving still.
This aloneness, sacred and immense,
Is not a wound, but echo of the One.
It is the cradle of the deathless fire,
The breath of Krishna in a world of skia.

Ah, sweet is pain when it is borne with flame,
When one has kissed the chalice of the Void.
The tree must fall to rise into the sky,
And root itself in starry realms unborn.
What dies is not the soul, but form and cry,
The garment worn in dream, now shed in light.
And what remains is purer than all shape,
The stillness where the Absolute is bared.

O seeker, weep not when the world dissolves,
For Krishna plays His flute beyond the veil.
It is not heard by ears wrapped in shade
But by the heart that bleeds with sacred trust.
Let sorrow come, let death descend like rain,
The Master speaks when all is hushed and still.
And in that flute—so tender, vast, and bright,
Thy name is sung beyond the script of Time.

The pain thou feel'st is not thine enemy;
It is the shadow of a greater joy.
The wound becomes the window of the soul,
And through that wound the Infinite descends.
Do not flee the deep that cloaks thy nights,
For in that calm the stars begin to burn.
And when the world withdraws into the deep,
Thou shalt behold the face that never fades.

This is the journey—neither road nor chart,
But through the fire of vanishing and vow.
Through shattered self, through broken name and frame,
Through death, till death itself becomes a kiss.
The flute of Krishna plays within the void,
And thou must die to hear its final note.
And when that note resounds within thy soul,
There is no death—only the death of death.

Then shalt thou rise, O soul of flame and wraith,
Not rooted in the Earth, but in the Vast.
A tree of consciousness with branches wide,
That bloom with stars and fruit the gods have wept.
No soil sustains this tree, no wind may shake,
For it is born of silence and of fire.

And through its veins the hymn of oneness flows,
And in its pulse the cosmos finds its rest.
This is the end, yet here the dawn does break,
The One that perishes not, nor speaks, yet shines.
O seeker, traverse the realms of loss and death,
And in that sacred silence, find thyself.

No name, no form, no earthly truth can bind
The radiant flame of That which ever lives.
It echoes in thy soul, a fire divine,
The flute of Krishna, born beyond the tomb,
That sings of love, the fire that even death obeys.
*****
@Prabir Kumar Gayen
22 April 2025,5: 44 PM