Custom In Ultimacy Poem by Dev Abraham Valliyil

Those were the seeds of passion
That discoursed thee to a sweet reply;
This is the language of fusion,
Not a source of reason to apply.

Divine creatures are panting to survive,
Enables not, existence in a muddle;
Dying thoughts sharpen the Edener’s to revive,
Last straw of chance as a riddle.

The way with light and truth in it,
Salvation possible, in all powers;
Those from the past and present to lit,
The lamp, the towers.

Now the Occidental mode is same here,
To hug the Shristi, Sthiti, and Samhara;
The belief is possible, not to a species mere,
Have a sort of custom not in an Agrahara.