What do you think?
Rate this book
Mandalas: The dynamics of vedic symbolism
A Deer Sermon
Before the humming of human voices.
Before human myths
and hymns . . .
The silence of the sky,
the darkening purple of distant slopes,
the vast, sustained quiet of the lakes’s lyric . . .
All found themselves echoed in the lake's reflections.
With the evening breeze, all the lake’s images
trembled into dreams of themselves,
until the air calmed
and all reflections recomposed themselves
once again
reassuming their original forms,
then faded away into evaporating light.
Darkness itself faded into night's slow river of constellations.
In far hills and mountains,
the great annals of the high forests and hills,
birch, alder, pine, and oak contributing to yet another ring
to the silent saga of their still growth.
Lakes and springs, waterfalls echoing in their grottos, glazing rocks,
streamed down valleys
feeding grass-filled, wildflower-strewn meadows.
It is there we found pasture.
And so it was, through forests
our story followed
the effortless calligraphy
of descending waters:
our ancient paths
cutting through meadows,
disappearing
among boulders,
reappearing within pine groves.
Arriving at the edge of a deep forest,
we fattened on berries.
A creek cut through the dunes
and we gazed out
upon the wave-tossed edge
of the great waters.
The earth and our migrations inscribed
each within each
many writings:
white glaciers dissolving into black moraines,
our wide swath of hoofprints peppering meadows of new-fallen snow.
These, though more permanent than the writing
of raindrops on leaves,
were not the Great Story.
Though we long remember the death of the great stag,
shivering before his legs folded.
One cat digging in from behind.
Another pulling down from the nose.
Soon afterward, heavy snow.
With spring,
an avalanche,
and the record of this story
lay buried,.
Smaller stories—
the calligraphy of our hooves in the snow,
tree rings
circumnavigating the sap
images of pines and stars
shimmering in lakes and lagoons
—continued.
After fires
Grasses and meadows
There we pastured
following
this same effortless paths
of fire
and falling waters.
We four-legged creatures,
following green waves
of wind-blown grasses,
of rainbows, of flower-strewn meadows,
began to be followed
by two-legged creatures.
At times, sipping sweet waters,
we would behold our images
in lakes and pools
rippling in stillness.
These haunted us,
but we thought not
of images themselves
until one evening,
following a trail of mushrooms. . .
while the moon stood erect
a great, glowing pair
of horns
floating through night,
we entered a cave
for the first time,
where
on the rock walls . . .
we beheld images
of ourselves.
Thus, we learned
the two-legged creatures
knew images also.
The two-legged creatures,
in caves and under boughs.
Later,
dwellings fashioned
from the skins
of four-legged creatures.
They made ropes
from our skin,
they used skins
to make sleds
so that four-legged creatures
could pull the loads
of the two-leggeds.
We whimpered under the weight.
Yet, the lightning step
of the fleeing deer
could not evade the traps
the two-leggeds
had hidden
in the forests . . .
In the end,
even long-remembered events—
the stalking,
the pounce from behind,
the clawing,
the crumpling legs,
the ripping of hide,
the tearing of flesh,
the coming of the two-legged ones—
were not really events.
None were really actions.
None were truly verbs.
All were
insignificant
like waves rippling
through grasslands
all mere nouns,
smaller even
than acorns.
For in all Earth and the Heavens
there is only one Verb.
Only one real action:
Fire
Only the great fire
in the heavens
and his pale, round, changing sister
can swallow up all nouns and then gradually
re-illumine them into existence once again.
These heavenly fires
these soaring calligraphers
cast their images
in countless lakes, pools, lagoons,
while forming broad paths
of light
meandering across
the great waters.
These inscriptions
light inscribed
within darkness-illumining night,
a photo-graphy
a writing
a writhing
with light
effortless as flowing calligraphy
of falling waters.
Gradually a great darkness
began covering
much of the land,
the loose-soiled clearings
and golden meadows.
For long and long,
much of the land was covered
with glaciers.
Alders and aspens had flourished
among icy giants
as glaciers began to melt.
As glaciers retreated,
the first trees to sink roots
into stony soil
were junipers.
Next,
aspens, seeding rapidly,
sending up quaking leaves,
rooting into poor
dry soil.
Water-loving willows.
Short-lived, shy of shade,
willows and aspens
were soon crowded out,
pushed back by birches
and pines
clustering along
the traces of falling waters,
of lakes, of streams.
On the hills,
pines spreading their bushy tops,
on knolls
stood birches.
Heaths crowned with heather,
dells with young undergrowth.
Alders in high-soiled lands,
an understory of chokeberries,
bird berries,
wild apples,
sallows in wetlands,
willows in flooded lands,
junipers on northern,
barren soil.
Trees began towering aloft,
young saplings rising up.
Pines flourishing
with sap-dripping cones
as it grew warmer.
In the welcoming soil,
dark oaks took root
expanded,
growing more populous
than maple
elm hazel
ash
pine.
From acorns
fair shoots
with lovely leaves.
They soared
up
like strawberry plants,
growing two-forked.
They stretched out their boughs,
spreading far and aloft
their leafy branches.
Their crowns extending to the heavens,
their foliage spreading up
until it stopped
the clouds from scudding,
the cloud patches from drifting.
Foliage hid
the great fire
of the Sun
so that he could not glow
on forest floors,
moon
so that her sweet light
was covered.
Just as the great waters
have no limit,
the great oak forests
extended far and wide.
The forests were writings
of the great fire
the Fire in the heavens.
All their twisted branches
buds
leafing into light
the calligraphy
of the great,
heavenly fire.
Now,
with no sun shining on the ground,
no moon gleaming palely,
there was little pasture
for the herds.
Even the great,
deep-leaved, oaken forests
were but nouns.
The one
the only,
Verb
was Fire.
Fire called for the winds
to harry the clouds,
to spread their wings
to cover the forests
with a darkness still deeper
than midnight.
In the wild, seething blackness
of clouds
the Great Fire
in the Heavens
became Lightning . . .
breaking brighter—for long instants—
than Light of Day.
Lightning
struck one oak.
Then Thunder,
booming like horns of stags
clashing in combat.
The Great Verb of Fire
was born
in Earthly form.
The Earthly Fire,
the Child of the Forests,
at first,
tender,
a gentle flame
clinging to leaves
and branches
as a fawn
clings to the udder
of its mother.
Driven
by breath of wind,
the child of forests
began growing,
bright as milk itself,
ranging around the forests,
tearing into their flesh,
devouring trees,
growing ever more purely bright
widening in his lusters,
as if he were bringing
the sun world,
the world of Heavenly Light,
as an offering to an immense sacrificial fire.
His mothers,
oak and pine,
alder and birch,
heather and maple,
dwelling side by side,
desiring,
came to him
who desired them
and gave him pleasure
as to their eternal
spouse.
These sisters
took joy in him
as does the dawn
when she comes
dusky,
flushing red,
shining out
in rich hues.
In their satisfaction
they clung to him
as he clung to them,
joining him in body
as rivers join the ocean.
The sister trees,
his mothers,
worshiped him,
the pure ones
worshiping the pure.
With clarity of light
they joined in
with the chanting
of the sacrificial name--
the immense roar
of the conflagration.
The faces
of this Fire God
chanting everywhere
fronting all things perfectly:
the very Eye of Light
and Vision.
When we saw him
from afar,
burning on a mountain
across a great valley,
he seemed near to us, so brilliantly
he shone across the gulfs.
He saw beyond
the darkness
of our nights,
for his vision,
like that of the Fire
in the Heavens,
is Divine.
Driven by the storm-winds,
he roared like a stag,
rushing upon the forests,
on its pleasant trees
that encumbered the path,
with the smoke of passion
in which there is
the light of vision.
At the noise of his coming,
even they
winging in the skies
were afraid, when his eaters
of pasture
rippled rapidly
across the grasslands.
When reaching forward
he touched
the Vastness of Being,
he panted
towards it
and, Thundering,
cried aloud.
He bends down
the trees, bellowing
as the male
to his mates.
Putting out his forces,
he gives joy
to their bodies,
making blissful
the forms of things.
Shaking decay from their bodies.
Like a fierce stag,
hard to seize,
he tosses his horns.
He,
whether contracted in being
or wide-extended,
seizes on the forest's forms
utterly . . .
After the rains ----
like the pines
reflected in the lakes,
the cycle
begins anew , , ,
green waves of meadow
honeyed grasslands,
herds grazing in the
dazzling lokas
clearings in the forest
the young clinging
to their mothers
the great stags bellowing
the
forest
beginning to re-imagine itself,
recomposing itself
in the image of the Great Verb
From acorns
By the time
the ancient image
of lightning had struck . . .
and thundered down
through the
spiritualities
of all the Vedic
and post-Vedic forms
of Hinduisms
and Buddhisms . . .
Rafts and
Vajrayanas . . .
dhi and pratibha
and sphota . . .
finally . . . .
on the furthest Eastern fringe
of the
Silk Road . . .
on that gnarled archipelago
of the Rising Sun . . .
Basho . . . .
wanderer through the far
northernmost wilderness
of Rising Sun poesy . . .
as silently as a Noh character
meandering onto
stage
of the great global
poetry slam
with one image-incinerating,
platitude-dispelling
bolt --
wrote these lines:
how refreshing!
one who finds no enlightenment
in the lightning flash
* A pastiche of fire-wise lines drawn from disparate post-glacial cultures: Ovid, the Kalevala, Gary Snyder's Mountains and Rivers without End, some Agni verses from the Rig Veda (tr. by Shri Aurobindo in Hymns to the Mystic Fire).
~ * ~
wildfire
the thermometer climbs
all night
"wildfire": First Place
by Carolyn Hall
Haiku Poets of Northern California
2000 San Francisco Internat'l Haiku Contest
Before the humming of human voices.
Before human myths
and hymns . . .
The silence of the sky,
the darkening purple of distant slopes,
the vast, sustained quiet of the lakes’s lyric . . .
All found themselves echoed in the lake's reflections.
With the evening breeze, all the lake’s images
trembled into dreams of themselves,
until the air calmed
and all reflections recomposed themselves
once again
reassuming their original forms,
then faded away into evaporating light.
Darkness itself faded into night's slow river of constellations.
In far hills and mountains,
the great annals of the high forests and hills,
birch, alder, pine, and oak contributing to yet another ring
to the silent saga of their still growth.
Lakes and springs, waterfalls echoing in their grottos, glazing rocks,
streamed down valleys
feeding grass-filled, wildflower-strewn meadows.
It is there we found pasture.
And so it was, through forests
our story followed
the effortless calligraphy
of descending waters:
our ancient paths
cutting through meadows,
disappearing
among boulders,
reappearing within pine groves.
Arriving at the edge of a deep forest,
we fattened on berries.
A creek cut through the dunes
and we gazed out
upon the wave-tossed edge
of the great waters.
The earth and our migrations inscribed
each within each
many writings:
white glaciers dissolving into black moraines,
our wide swath of hoofprints peppering meadows of new-fallen snow.
These, though more permanent than the writing
of raindrops on leaves,
were not the Great Story.
Though we long remember the death of the great stag,
shivering before his legs folded.
One cat digging in from behind.
Another pulling down from the nose.
Soon afterward, heavy snow.
With spring,
an avalanche,
and the record of this story
lay buried,.
Smaller stories—
the calligraphy of our hooves in the snow,
tree rings
circumnavigating the sap
images of pines and stars
shimmering in lakes and lagoons
—continued.
After fires
Grasses and meadows
There we pastured
following
this same effortless paths
of fire
and falling waters.
We four-legged creatures,
following green waves
of wind-blown grasses,
of rainbows, of flower-strewn meadows,
began to be followed
by two-legged creatures.
At times, sipping sweet waters,
we would behold our images
in lakes and pools
rippling in stillness.
These haunted us,
but we thought not
of images themselves
until one evening,
following a trail of mushrooms. . .
while the moon stood erect
a great, glowing pair
of horns
floating through night,
we entered a cave
for the first time,
where
on the rock walls . . .
we beheld images
of ourselves.
Thus, we learned
the two-legged creatures
knew images also.
The two-legged creatures,
in caves and under boughs.
Later,
dwellings fashioned
from the skins
of four-legged creatures.
They made ropes
from our skin,
they used skins
to make sleds
so that four-legged creatures
could pull the loads
of the two-leggeds.
We whimpered under the weight.
Yet, the lightning step
of the fleeing deer
could not evade the traps
the two-leggeds
had hidden
in the forests . . .
In the end,
even long-remembered events—
the stalking,
the pounce from behind,
the clawing,
the crumpling legs,
the ripping of hide,
the tearing of flesh,
the coming of the two-legged ones—
were not really events.
None were really actions.
None were truly verbs.
All were
insignificant
like waves rippling
through grasslands
all mere nouns,
smaller even
than acorns.
For in all Earth and the Heavens
there is only one Verb.
Only one real action:
Fire
Only the great fire
in the heavens
and his pale, round, changing sister
can swallow up all nouns and then gradually
re-illumine them into existence once again.
These heavenly fires
these soaring calligraphers
cast their images
in countless lakes, pools, lagoons,
while forming broad paths
of light
meandering across
the great waters.
These inscriptions
light inscribed
within darkness-illumining night,
a photo-graphy
a writing
a writhing
with light
effortless as flowing calligraphy
of falling waters.
Gradually a great darkness
began covering
much of the land,
the loose-soiled clearings
and golden meadows.
For long and long,
much of the land was covered
with glaciers.
Alders and aspens had flourished
among icy giants
as glaciers began to melt.
As glaciers retreated,
the first trees to sink roots
into stony soil
were junipers.
Next,
aspens, seeding rapidly,
sending up quaking leaves,
rooting into poor
dry soil.
Water-loving willows.
Short-lived, shy of shade,
willows and aspens
were soon crowded out,
pushed back by birches
and pines
clustering along
the traces of falling waters,
of lakes, of streams.
On the hills,
pines spreading their bushy tops,
on knolls
stood birches.
Heaths crowned with heather,
dells with young undergrowth.
Alders in high-soiled lands,
an understory of chokeberries,
bird berries,
wild apples,
sallows in wetlands,
willows in flooded lands,
junipers on northern,
barren soil.
Trees began towering aloft,
young saplings rising up.
Pines flourishing
with sap-dripping cones
as it grew warmer.
In the welcoming soil,
dark oaks took root
expanded,
growing more populous
than maple
elm hazel
ash
pine.
From acorns
fair shoots
with lovely leaves.
They soared
up
like strawberry plants,
growing two-forked.
They stretched out their boughs,
spreading far and aloft
their leafy branches.
Their crowns extending to the heavens,
their foliage spreading up
until it stopped
the clouds from scudding,
the cloud patches from drifting.
Foliage hid
the great fire
of the Sun
so that he could not glow
on forest floors,
moon
so that her sweet light
was covered.
Just as the great waters
have no limit,
the great oak forests
extended far and wide.
The forests were writings
of the great fire
the Fire in the heavens.
All their twisted branches
buds
leafing into light
the calligraphy
of the great,
heavenly fire.
Now,
with no sun shining on the ground,
no moon gleaming palely,
there was little pasture
for the herds.
Even the great,
deep-leaved, oaken forests
were but nouns.
The one
the only,
Verb
was Fire.
Fire called for the winds
to harry the clouds,
to spread their wings
to cover the forests
with a darkness still deeper
than midnight.
In the wild, seething blackness
of clouds
the Great Fire
in the Heavens
became Lightning . . .
breaking brighter—for long instants—
than Light of Day.
Lightning
struck one oak.
Then Thunder,
booming like horns of stags
clashing in combat.
The Great Verb of Fire
was born
in Earthly form.
The Earthly Fire,
the Child of the Forests,
at first,
tender,
a gentle flame
clinging to leaves
and branches
as a fawn
clings to the udder
of its mother.
Driven
by breath of wind,
the child of forests
began growing,
bright as milk itself,
ranging around the forests,
tearing into their flesh,
devouring trees,
growing ever more purely bright
widening in his lusters,
as if he were bringing
the sun world,
the world of Heavenly Light,
as an offering to an immense sacrificial fire.
His mothers,
oak and pine,
alder and birch,
heather and maple,
dwelling side by side,
desiring,
came to him
who desired them
and gave him pleasure
as to their eternal
spouse.
These sisters
took joy in him
as does the dawn
when she comes
dusky,
flushing red,
shining out
in rich hues.
In their satisfaction
they clung to him
as he clung to them,
joining him in body
as rivers join the ocean.
The sister trees,
his mothers,
worshiped him,
the pure ones
worshiping the pure.
With clarity of light
they joined in
with the chanting
of the sacrificial name--
the immense roar
of the conflagration.
The faces
of this Fire God
chanting everywhere
fronting all things perfectly:
the very Eye of Light
and Vision.
When we saw him
from afar,
burning on a mountain
across a great valley,
he seemed near to us, so brilliantly
he shone across the gulfs.
He saw beyond
the darkness
of our nights,
for his vision,
like that of the Fire
in the Heavens,
is Divine.
Driven by the storm-winds,
he roared like a stag,
rushing upon the forests,
on its pleasant trees
that encumbered the path,
with the smoke of passion
in which there is
the light of vision.
At the noise of his coming,
even they
winging in the skies
were afraid, when his eaters
of pasture
rippled rapidly
across the grasslands.
When reaching forward
he touched
the Vastness of Being,
he panted
towards it
and, Thundering,
cried aloud.
He bends down
the trees, bellowing
as the male
to his mates.
Putting out his forces,
he gives joy
to their bodies,
making blissful
the forms of things.
Shaking decay from their bodies.
Like a fierce stag,
hard to seize,
he tosses his horns.
He,
whether contracted in being
or wide-extended,
seizes on the forest's forms
utterly . . .
After the rains ----
like the pines
reflected in the lakes,
the cycle
begins anew , , ,
green waves of meadow
honeyed grasslands,
herds grazing in the
dazzling lokas
clearings in the forest
the young clinging
to their mothers
the great stags bellowing
the
forest
beginning to re-imagine itself,
recomposing itself
in the image of the Great Verb
From acorns
By the time
the ancient image
of lightning had struck . . .
and thundered down
through the
spiritualities
of all the Vedic
and post-Vedic forms
of Hinduisms
and Buddhisms . . .
Rafts and
Vajrayanas . . .
dhi and pratibha
and sphota . . .
finally . . . .
on the furthest Eastern fringe
of the
Silk Road . . .
on that gnarled archipelago
of the Rising Sun . . .
Basho . . . .
wanderer through the far
northernmost wilderness
of Rising Sun poesy . . .
as silently as a Noh character
meandering onto
stage
of the great global
poetry slam
with one image-incinerating,
platitude-dispelling
bolt --
wrote these lines:
how refreshing!
one who finds no enlightenment
in the lightning flash
* A pastiche of fire-wise lines drawn from disparate post-glacial cultures: Ovid, the Kalevala, Gary Snyder's Mountains and Rivers without End, some Agni verses from the Rig Veda (tr. by Shri Aurobindo in Hymns to the Mystic Fire).
~ * ~
wildfire
the thermometer climbs
all night
"wildfire": First Place
by Carolyn Hall
Haiku Poets of Northern California
2000 San Francisco Internat'l Haiku Contest
127 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1979
About the author
James N. Powell
14 books1,189 followers~ New York Times
Most people think they use language to communicate. But language is insidious; it determines the way we think. Modern philosophers say we live in a universe limited by our language. Ludwig Wittgenstein even said we were ''bewitched.'' James Powell goes a little further. He examines the symbols of language the way a biologist examines cells. By inquiring into the nature of symbols themselves, he hopes to show the transcendental capacity of language not for mere communication but for ''communion.'' He assures us that the universe is a silent partner in a dialogue that goes on all the time and that throughout history certain images and techniques of meditation have led consciousness to break through the limitations of language.
Mr. Powell argues that we tend to underestimate the volatility of symbols. In world politics, we can easily see the danger of a breakdown in communication. When one world of meaning has no reality for the other, dialogue stops, sometimes violently. If the breakdown is taken as a failure in communication, in which each side sees the other as willfully irrational, the result is explosive. If, however, the failure is seen as a collision of symbol systems, each of which has absolute internal reality, then dialogue may be pursued with a different understanding. 'The Tao of Symbols is Mr. Powell's attempt to bring occupants of different worlds together (Buddhist and Moslem, scientist and sage) and to suggest the basis for a new kind of dialogue.
Some Suggestions for Interreligious Dialog
In addition to his published works, Jim Powell collaborated with Imogen Cunningham on a photographically illustrated translation of the verse of St. John of the Cross.
Prologues to What Is Possible
1.
There was an ease of mind that was like being alone in a boat at sea,
A boat carried forward by waves resembling the bright backs of rowers,
Gripping their oars, as if they were sure of the way to their destination,
Bending over and pulling themselves erect on the wooden handles,
Wet with water and sparkling in the one-ness of their motion.
The boat was built of stones that had lost their weight and being
no longer heavy
Had left in them only a brilliance, of unaccustomed origin,
So that he that stood up in the boat leaning and looking before him
Did not pass like someone voyaging out of and beyond the familiar.
He belonged to the far-foreign departure of his vessel and was part of it,
Part of the speculum of fire on its prow, its symbol, whatever it was,
Part of the glass-like sides on which it glided over the salt-stained water.
As he traveled alone, like a man lured on by a syllable without
any meaning,
A syllable of which he felt, with an appointed sureness,
That it contained the meaning into which he wanted to enter,
A meaning which, as he entered it, would shatter the boat and leave
the oarsmen quiet
As at a point of central arrival, an instant moment, much or little,
Removed from any shore, from any man or woman, and needing none.
~ Wallace Stevens
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 23, 2024
As a kid I worked on hot-shot, trail, and surveying crews for the US Forest Service. That kind of work involves becoming intimate with one of the most powerful forces on the planet: forest fires. For a long time Smokey considered wildfires to be detrimental, but slowly, with knowledge of fire ecology, fire was recognized as a metabolic agent that burns through healthy forests in the natural course of events. After all, in Pre-Colombian times, fire burned through almost every inch of the United States periodically and is as much a part in healthy ecosystems as is water and soil and thunderstorm.
The first part of this book, before being published in India, was my master's thesis at the University of California Santa Barbara in Religious Studies. My committee chair was the great Raimundo Panikkar, with the equally remarkable Nandini Iyer and Gerald Larson filling in the other two seats.
While studying the Vedas under these able guides, because of my background in the U.S. Forest Service, I began to recognize that the Vedic tribes, as well as the Proto-Indo-European tribes from which they had anciently branched off like tines in a stag's antlers. were nomadic and chanted their own knowledge of fire ecology in the hymns of the Rig Veda. The first hymn, for instance, begins, "I adore Agni," Agni (a cognate with English "ignite") being the God of Fire: the metabolic element in the entire universe.
Mine was a structural study of Proto-Indo-European and Vedic myths relating to fire ecology.
The second part of this book examines the same myths not for their semantic value, but for their phonetic value -- in other words, as sonorous, luminous levels of mantra, and increasingly translucent veils through which the Goddess of Speech, Vac, reveals and conceals herself to the seers.
The Sanskrit word loka originally meant a clearing in the forest, burned out by fire. It came to mean, of course, a spiritual world, a heaven. When viewed as mantras, the hymns open up a spiritual clearing.
If you have an interest in Vedic culture or more generally in myth or mantra, you might find this book of value.
Certainly, years of meditation and study went into it.
The first part of this book, before being published in India, was my master's thesis at the University of California Santa Barbara in Religious Studies. My committee chair was the great Raimundo Panikkar, with the equally remarkable Nandini Iyer and Gerald Larson filling in the other two seats.
While studying the Vedas under these able guides, because of my background in the U.S. Forest Service, I began to recognize that the Vedic tribes, as well as the Proto-Indo-European tribes from which they had anciently branched off like tines in a stag's antlers. were nomadic and chanted their own knowledge of fire ecology in the hymns of the Rig Veda. The first hymn, for instance, begins, "I adore Agni," Agni (a cognate with English "ignite") being the God of Fire: the metabolic element in the entire universe.
Mine was a structural study of Proto-Indo-European and Vedic myths relating to fire ecology.
The second part of this book examines the same myths not for their semantic value, but for their phonetic value -- in other words, as sonorous, luminous levels of mantra, and increasingly translucent veils through which the Goddess of Speech, Vac, reveals and conceals herself to the seers.
The Sanskrit word loka originally meant a clearing in the forest, burned out by fire. It came to mean, of course, a spiritual world, a heaven. When viewed as mantras, the hymns open up a spiritual clearing.
If you have an interest in Vedic culture or more generally in myth or mantra, you might find this book of value.
Certainly, years of meditation and study went into it.
April 24, 2023
This book is a difficult read. It displays a vast amount of knowledge about Vedic themes, but probably requires a reader that is also very knowledgeable about the same. I have marked this as to read again, but I will do so only after learning much more about Vedic times and mythology.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews