Just below the heart
and just above the solar plexus,
to be precise,
is a temple in the valley
of grace. And
here,
two fingers' width
in front of your chest,
to be precise, is a flame
that does not burn
but gives sweetness.
It is like cotton spun
from fibers of starlight.
All triangles point here.
All equations are balanced
by the breath this space holds.
The constellations, those beasts
of silence, gather to drink
from this spring
which Jesus called the well
of everlasting life,
Milarepa the jewel
at the center of a lotus
with bee-drowning fragrance,
an amazement of proportions
that drive mathematicians mad
in search of beauty.
Perhaps the name of Krishna
will draw you
here, perhaps
the name of Christ, or the secret
name of the Goddess, born
on a vapor of surrender.
But really, you won't comprehend
this radiance at all
until you gaze on the face
of the Friend,
in the mirror
of your own longing.
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