Don't tell me how
embodied you are,
or how hard it is
to be an empath.
Just feel the full moon flowing
through every nerve.
Taste the birth of stars
eight billion light years away
through the pulse of the blue vein
in your bare foot.
Let the photons in your bloodstream
dance with Sundara
through his cavern of
radiant darkness, your heart,
no, not in a dream
but a flesh-flame too wild,
too beautiful to name
except in the language of tears,
or quickly taken breaths
slowly surrendered.
Nothing can blind you
but your mind,
busy with explaining things.
Just for tonight,
let your religion
be astonishment.
Note: The sound of Om, and the oneness of Advaita, are just kindling for the fire of Bhakti. When Krishna dances in the moonlight with a host of Gopis, zero is multiplied by a thousand, the stars throb with breathless names like Shyama Sundara, Dark Lord of Beauty, Murli Manoor, God of the Intoxicating Flute, Govinda Gopal, Shepherd of Souls, and flames spring up in my bewildered heart.
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