Though you are beyond anatomy, and more abstract, still we love personification, so for some, you are a he
As I am a woman, so for me you are a she.
Few search you in the sanctum outside.
Few find in their sanctum inside.
Few feel you in granite monolith and give it a form and offer their obeisance
Few find you in books and scriptures and read with reverence.
Few remember you only during their troubles and surrender themselves to your feet.
Few forever remain grateful in times of flaws and feats.
You are not even energy for an atheist
For them, you just don’t exist.
But you belong to all, even to those who don’t believe in you.
For You are transcendental, beyond human experience, and so there is no proof, no one ever talks and sees you.
But in our everyday life, myriad roles you play, you are a creator, father, mother, and master
You are a song, dance, art, friend, and lover.
Everyone imagines you in their own convenient way.
Your presence can be felt in our lives, like a time which cannot be seen but teaches a lot, like a wind full of energy and gay.
For me you are my muse, flow of my verse, give wings to my imagination, present bouquet of words to my rustic yet heart’s truest feeling.
You arrange my scattered beads of feelings to weave verses, sieve coarser thoughts, and polish and refine feelings.
In form of words, you make your presence felt, as if on behalf of me you hold my quill.
To my pen, you are an ink when I sit down to write verses with love, mirth, and goodwill.