Why you seem to move through my inner being like if you own me from head to toe?
Why you are the sound—having no form, no smell, no taste, no feeling; but an irresistible power that snares every cell and nerve?
Why, as it seems, you meet me mentally and manage my moods? Every neuron of my brain responds to you like if it has been waiting for that pulse through centuries.
Giving you names and categorizing you in genres, people enjoy various forms of your unseen beauty.
In the tickle of a water drop, I hear you like a tom-tom. In the twang of a metal piece struck by a smith, I recognize the presence of synthesizers, pianos and other keyboards.
In the deep voice of whispering winds, I tune myself to flutes, fifes, and pipes.
In the crackle of a hidden group of children, I stand tête-à-tête with stringed instruments that are vying with each other.
In the majestic roar of thunder, I enjoy the thumping stroke of a Pakhāwaj.
There, they call, is an unheard form of yours, which is un-struck: It is ethereal, eclectic, yet dodges any instrument or throat. It moves in the upper regions of atmosphere where no medium is required for its movements—there is no wavelength, no frequency, and therefore, no calculation—it remains there, unmoved, unaffected and undiminished.
It is heard, felt and experienced in the innermost recesses of consciousness where no distinction prevails. It is beyond characteristics, beyond description and beyond ascription.
Like the unseen force that operates this unexplored universe, it moves unheard yet pulsating every tissue that synchronizes to make this creation palpable.