They say the world is a mirage compared to the samadhi void. I say even the void is a mirage compared to Shyam, whose flesh is the sky-brilliance of a sapphire.
He ambles through lusher gardens than enlightenment, where you pundits and yogis cannot enter, for you must pass the flaming sword of the gate keeper, which lops off reason and makes you a fool.
His wine is love stored up in a hidden wine skin, the passion of emptiness, the breast from whose hollow scholars never drink, having forgotten how to weep transcendental tears of longing...
Which after all are the ordinary tears of a hyacinth in February, a crysalis congealed in dreamless bewilderment, a peacock wandering alone in a cage of zeroes, a weeping mirrored rainbow who cannot see its Self until the fan of knowledge closes.
Come now, be as human as you can. Through these ordinary tears, that which is more inward than "I Am" becomes visible, deeper in the seed than next Spring, sweet beyond tasting, flute of the deaf.
The core of the reed is nothingness, but that's what makes it sing. Just so, He is the love which has no object, consuming lover and beloved. The Lord of this garden is not a symbol of anything else.
Don't look for a meaning in it. Just have the affair. Take the journey of one heart-beat across the ocean of your blood, to the shadow at the pit of the galaxy.
Collapse, return to the brilliant vacuum between one breath and another, transmuting your flesh into dark matter like his, sweet as a rain-laden cloud exhausted by kirtan weeping.
I only give you glimpses of Krishna's vastness, the trembling emptiness of an eye that sees itself. I only leave clues about the scented bower toward whose entrance sinlessly naked you wander, crazy enough to be invited IN.
He meets us all here, even the party crashers. Who is He, really, this outrageous lapis-throated paramour you imagined to be your own, who whispered the secret name only your betrothed could know?
You thought it would just be the two of you, fool! His gaze contains us all. His body is space itself, infused with the unstruck ringing of sub-atomic chimes. What are these bells if not the infinitesimal gods of every probability-wave in the golden ocean of stillness?
Govinda twines his limbs with yours; there are countless ways to make love. He is the madness of the Possible. How could one finger of his hand not fondle all our hearts? How could the intimate glance of his omniscient eye not torment every soul into dissolving?
The one who asked you to this dance invited every beggar. Don't RSVP: just fall on your belly, lower than a serpent, sinking in reptilian holiness. That is how your pinions unfold, poppies unfolding from loam.
Bhakti is the pulse of one perfect darkness at the center of every whirling soul. Leave petty jealousy behind. Real ecstasy is out of control. Let etiquette return to chaos.
Enter the jasmine-scented grove at pavonine midnight. Eternity imagines time just so that you can have this darshan moment, stunned by the beauty of Madhava, winged with the past and the future.
To each He is the bridegroom. Yet you must be faithful to One alone. This is the sweet injustice of the affair, purity and impurity pervaded by the same bliss.
Don't say, "I walk through deep night, searching for the smokeless blue flame of his grace." That is the way of the Way.
Why not be a disappearing cloud, melting into the blackness you move through? All at once, you are filled with stars. That is the way of the Wayless.
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