The Song Of Realisation Poem by Prabir Gayen

The Song of Realisation
(Religion is Realisation)
by Prabir Kumar Gayen

Not in the Tao of bells or temple drums,
Nor in the lines where ancient mantras dwell,
Not in the silent verse, nor priestly robes,
Nor hands that touch the infinite god,
Religion is not born from the river of change,
But in the flame where realisation wakes.

The truth is not a form, nor graven in Akala,
It has no name, no race, no book to bind.
It dwells where Krishna smiles in the stillness of the soul,
Where Buddha sits In the shadow of the sacred grove,
And drinks the stillness from the sacred stream,
It blooms from Jesus' wounds, the voice of love,
And dances with Chaitanya in rapture's tide,
A mercy vast as chanting on the waves.

It climbs with Hanuman in loyal flame,
Leaps through the fire with penance of Mahavira,
And soars with Vivekananda's thunder soul,
A lion of silence, calling man to rise.
It flows with Lao Tzu, deeper than the stream,
A Tao that speaks in what it does not say,
And in Heraclitus, where fire thinks,
The logos dancing in the soul of change.

O pilgrim, if thy prayer be but a sound,
And not the living truth thy soul hath breathed,
Then every rite is but a fading shade,
A dream that dies upon morning dew.
If thou should praise, yet know not who thou art,
Thy god is dream, thy worship merely dust.
For even Krishna's flute is only heard
With ears that drink the silence of the Soul.

Within the quiet cave where God is near,
Though Lanka falls, it lives in tale alone,
And stirs no echo in the soul's deep sphere.
If Lao Tzu built a shrine to name the Tao,
It would collapse beneath its sacred form.
If Buddha gave the monks mere borrowed chants,
And not the silence of the middle way,
His dharma would become a fading whisper.

And if Kabir forgot the light within,
And muttered names without the inward gaze,
Then sound would be his prison, not his song.
Heraclitus, if bent before a god,
Yet knew not eros that binds the opposites,
Would lose the flow that held his sacred bond.
If Zen, in love with polished words, had strayed,
And pointed to the heavens, not the soul,
It would have lost the fire that frees the heart,
A dance of forms, where truth is cloaked in night.

For truth is not in heights, nor in the dust,
It is the fire that wakes the breath within,
No outer act, no law, no sacred rite,
Can touch the formless silence where the Real dwells.
For only when the self is deeply known,
And soul surrenders into soul's own light,
Religion lives and bursts into a koan.

There, rites unfold like wings in sacred air,
And vows are stars that guide the soul's ascent.
There silence sings, and every breath is prayer,
And love becomes the only holy law.
There, Socrates drinks hemlock as a smile,
And Aurobindo speaks from realms unborn,
Where thought ascends, a flame of lucid gold,
And being flows in rapture, deep and bold—
Where God is not beyond, but ever near,
A presence felt in light, serene and clear.

O seeker, cast aside the creeds of night,
And walk where Krishna's breath becomes the lyre,
Where silence sings, enthroned in living light,
And stars are born from chords of deathless fire.
No scripture clasps the rapture of that blaze—
It rends through thought, a flame no mind may hold,
It sings where soul is lost in soundless rays,
And time dissolves in ecstasies untold.
@Prabir Gayen
29/04/2025/11: 30 PM.