Poem 86

In plain words

To the formless One, who has no form at all, who is able to give any shape? To Him who has neither hands nor feet, what graces can anyone picture in the mind? ‘It is like this, it is like that; this form, that form’: such talk is laughable. ‘He holds a splendour surpassing a crore of suns’: are words that say so any holier? To tell the form of a power that has no form, who is able? Can anyone ever know it? That power, free of form, from beginningless time has shone out in every quarter, to the ends of space.