The following is by someone who used to post here under the username of "Larkin", and it demonstrates a mountainous talent that I can only admire from the foothills. It's called

The Song of Liarwatha
(part 1)

Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With their still reverberations,
With their frequent repetitions,
Spoken in the still of ashrams,
By the woodsmoke of the fireside,
Ancient truths and superstitions
Of the lotus and the mango?

I should answer, I should tell you,
They are but primordial memories,
Carried down through endless ages,
Of the Gita and the Vedas,
‘Neath the snow-capped Himalayas,
In the markets of the foothills,
In the villages and temples,
By the mighty Gitchee-Gangee,
By the shining big-sea water,
Passed on down through son and daughter,
In the counsel of the wise man,
Saffron gowned, and still his centre;

Telling how the Sacred Spirit,
In the form of Ram, of Krishna,
Brings the truth of Mighty Hokum,
And the soul’s long transmigration,
Fish to bird to tree to bison,
Seeking ever liberation,
Oneness in that sweet Nirvana,
Never found without the Master,
He whose coming is our blessing,
His great mercy our redemption,
His compassion our deliverance,
Each new age with greater power,
Always in our darkest hour...

Still they tell how on that morning
Proud upon his milk-white charger
Robed in white, the Lord descended
Word made flesh, the Sacred Spirit,
Keeper of the Mighty Hokum,
Shri Hans Ji (on Shri Hans’ gee-gee)
Won the heart of his beloved,
Who beheld him in the clearing,
Of the village in the foothills,
Of the snow-capped Himalayas,
By the mighty Gitchee-Gangee,
By the shining big-sea water,
His bejewelled Indian princess.

And he wooed her with caresses,
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,
Till he drew her to his bosom,
And in wond’rous wedlock knew her,
Whence she bore four noble tribesmen,
Balba-Guano, Bholi-Poli, Raging Bulli were the elders,
But of all, the most beloved
Of the Rawat tribe revered,
Most adored, indulged and cherished,
Radhasoami’s smarmy-swami,
Born to lead his barmy army,
Was the boy-child Liarwatha.

You shall hear how Liarwatha
But a child of six short summers,
Took the gift of Mighty Hokum,
From the Living Lord Descended,
Fourteen days of dedication,
Saw the Light of Truth a-glowing,
Heard the sacred Wind a-rushing,
Tasted Nectar’s river rising,
Knew the Word’s reverberation,

Prayed then to the Sacred Spirit,
Not for greater skill in hunting,
Nor for greater craft in fishing,
Nor for triumphs in the battle,
And renown among the warriors,
But for truth and liberation,
And the sweetness of Nirvana,
For that oneness with his Maker,
For eternal realisation,
That his heart might dwell with Brahma
This was then the meditation
Of the man-child Liarwatha.

Come now those who would seek wisdom,
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in Truth and Nature,
Who believe that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
Every mortal is but mortal,
Every promise may be broken,
Every gift is but a token,
Hear my song of Liarwatha.

(to be continued...)
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PS - though the poet in question still posts here on rare occasions, I don't know if the continuation was ever published - or even composed.