Hymn for Ma Sarada

O Mother, see how frayed it stands,
Its crosses have clotted on the needles of its soul
As it wriggled to your toes with trembling hands
To splice the strands that will weave it whole

These gray silhouettes that ground
Its spirit adrift like a starless sight
But your anchol sways, where mercy is found,
Stitching the dusk into twilight

This terracotta of mine, stamped and worn,
Tormented by none but its acts in vain
Now led to trials, it soldiers alone,
Yearning asylum in your enchanted reign

For, only in you, the storm ceases to rage—
As you rock cradle craved by the sinner and sage.