The old Rabbi said, Torah contains all revelation.
The Brahmin said, Vedas reveal everything.
The Gospel is the end of it, said the priest.
Then I went to a Mosque, where the Imam told me,
Those old books were corrected by the last Prophet:
no revelation after holy Qu'ran.
But a funny thing happened when I heard them:
my heart contracted in breathless withering,
I felt my juices drying up.
So I walked barefoot through my own back yard
and consulted the first plum bud.
That tiny green nipple gushed Torah,
Veda, Gospel, Qu'ran: new juices
blushed up the twigs in my body.
Allah struck dumb by the fragrance of that pollen,
the breasts of El Shaddai could not contain the milk
that sparkled over those naked branches
and bubbled up in mushrooms.
Forsythia dripped golden sweetness,
tipped the tulip cup and spilled
bright God all over the moss.
The original prophet was the Robin.
Then came the grace of the messenger Bee.
At night I heard Upanishad intoned by frogs,
ten thousand little pundits in the wetlands!
At dawn, I was moved into deeper silence
by the Sura of the Sparrow.
I could not fathom the verses of the Thrush,
feathered rishis in the apple trees.
Books are for Winter, calligraphy of frost.
I love to read, but when Spring comes,
Epistles are written in the petals of the rose,
I Ching cast in blossoming sticks on blue sky.
As long as seasons unfold
like wings of Presence from old cocoons,
revelation will never cease!

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