The Sensory Gate (Pratyahara)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Little bronze bell, forged in the fires of Taxila, 200 BCE,
you sit silent on this straw mat in the mud-brick hall.

[Verse 1]
Patanjali whispered your name in the Yoga Sutras,
circa 2nd century BCE, when the senses were rivers to dam.
I strike you once, at 4:30 AM, Brahma Muhurta,
and your tone lingers, a vibration at 18 degrees Celsius,
grounding my feet on the cool, rough straw.
You, worn smooth by fingers of unnamed disciples,
women in the shadows, lower castes forgotten in the texts.

[Chorus]
Withdraw, like the turtle into its shell,
senses folding back from the sandalwood smoke,
from the boiled rice and lentils still warm in my belly.
Neurons quieting in the prefrontal cortex,
gating the flood, Pratyahara's gentle lock.
You ring, and I let go.

[Verse 2]
In this ashram hall, oil lamp flickering low,
your curve holds the echo of synaptic retreat.
Edwin F. Bryant's translation, 2009, North Point Press,
speaks of abstraction, senses under mind's reign.
I address you, bell, as my gatekeeper,
blocking the distant drum, the morning chill,

[Bridge]
Strange fact: your metaphor, the turtle's limbs retracting,
taught orally to the illiterate, vivid in the dim light.
Gaps in the record, missing voices, like ghosts in the neural net.
Yet here, in withdrawal, I find the clarity.

[Outro]
Little bell, you toll the zero state,
sensory gate closing softly, ataraxia's breath.
Patanjali's quote lingers: senses withdrawn,
come under the mind's control.
One perfect sigh.