The cat held its young in its mouth,
Its incesors gnashing into the new born's flesh.
The young hung limp, as though meditating:
A frail weanling, drifting painless in its mother's love.
It was guided, protected by a better force.
Am I not that kitten, and my Maker, the cat?
He holds my hand, guiding me through light and dark.
He holds on to me, not I to Him,
Like the mother holds onto the weanling cat.
No, not even the holding on is my karma.
[Based on the philosophy of 'Marjarakisora', Sri Vaishnavism]
Krishnarasa Seshadri
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-my-karma/
