The pointing finger
“Behold, the wisdom of the ages”, said the sage
and exited. I, excited, locked my sight
on the nitid image of his pointing finger.
* * * * * *
Forty summers I followed the finger
Like an unceasing hound – (the finger beckoning);
The finger beckoned, I, the untiring ghost
Roamed the haunted vaults of wisdom;
Searching, picking ,sifting, weighing, gathering.
Hypnotised myself into insatiable thirst.
The midnight ponderings over ancient tomes
And modern mystiques. And words of all men
Who spoke of wisdom and knowledge and spirit
Became self-sustained second nature.
Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty summers and winters;
And yet the finger pointed and mocked and pointed.
The silent sage’s mocking finger pointed and mocked.
* * * * * *
And then I saw I was running all along
On the surface in wider, wilder, widening circles
While, all the time, the finger pointed up!
V.S.Sury
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