The Moving Finger Writes The moving finger writes— The fingers that play the flute in every human frame— The moving finger writes The history of Time and Space. The moving finger writes The destiny of man. They write, they draw, they wave, they twirl They rise and fall, full circle or arc or curve In playful lilt or sport; but, meaningful most Marking time, all the time, though time is but a wink And space, a span In Baba’s Mighty Move. What do they do, these light and lovely digits of the Lord These active agents of Grace and Godly Majesty? They rise— As they rose to raise a peak against the flood Let loose on man by a jealous god— They rise … and they stop a flood! The onward marching troops of alien brood Go reeling back, over the range of peaks! They wave, They pass smooth over a tormented brow, a tortured mind They have the Lotus petal touch (The fingers held the Lotus once) They rise in a sweep And scatter the surging clouds. (They wielded the Chakra once.) The inner foes of someone He blesses Do flee when the fingers rise to warn; Those fingers domesticate the brutal throng. The moving fingers write an undeciphered script And, somewhere on this earth, tragedy becomes a tale of joy. A mother gets news of long-lost son; a father learns his son is good; The moving finger writes Some Sadhak He seeks to bless Sits up; and reads the symbol Om He bows, he knows; his daze, his doubt, what name to rear In the nursery of his heart is gone. The Om he got when he wrote it here, is to him the only hymn. The finger comes down quick, you are puzzled when you see! But a monk is hit in a far-off place Straight on the back of his head! He has slept the sleep of tired search In lanes of labyrinth libraries He wakes; he sees His Heavenly Form; He asks; is answered He is blessed by that blow. The fingers jerk— The same little jerk that broke the bridal bow The same little jerk that swished the whip on fiery battle steeds— The fingers make a jerk … but, now In far off Jammu vale a poison cup is snatched from desperate hold A loaded rod of death is shifted quick A life revived with tonic touch. Those fingers draw an arc—a tiny arc, on air, from where He is And, lo, a scientist lost in the maze of doubt in Ankara, or Prague perhaps (is it Ankara?) Sees the arc in a flash …ah, just the thing, the size! He uses it to fill the diagram gap…and he wins. He earns both name and fame. The fingers turn, not just a turn; all turns are good When he turns them so. For he is Mercy come as Man. The fingers turn, they turn the scales To favor simple faith, To favor repentant hearts, yearning minds. They draw, they draw lines and curves and squares on sand! And, lo, along the lines, the sand is changed to sweetness, fragrance, holiness. The fingers come down in a curve And, mark! A spaceship, rocket with two aboard Drops safe on earth, right on spot! The fingers come down in a curve—and mark, Auspicious things are scattered everywhere For all who earn His Grace! The finger rises a tiny height. That instant, the ancient Linga of a shrine Is rich with his picture, inside the stony sanctity A tiny height, for all to see for ever more. The fingers twirl and turn around And all the spheres and stars obey They move around so smooth, in ordained orbits true, They calm the flood, they scotch the flame; They direct the pilot over the Rockies peaks To the spot where the wreckage lay. They rise! The two fingers are wide apart and swing, They wave in rhythmic melody That and this, you and He, inner outer, Knower Known Both of the self-same Hand. The fingers doodle in the air But, he is doodling on your heart And, as the lines run round The heart becomes the seat of Beauty, Truth and Bliss. Every line is a direction which reveals The destination we miss. The moving finger writes the history of Time and Space The moving finger writes The Destiny of Man. ~N. Kasturi Kavisammelan 22-10–66
