Has no one told you?
The fingers of the infinite play over
your wounds.
You could be an instrument for the
breath of the garden.
Pressing your bruises, the healer makes a melody
pass through your seventh emptiness.
Your scent fills him with longing, though you
are but a jasmine petal dancing in his will.
God is a hungry ghost without you.
Why not be his flute?
So hollow, yet
your hollowness so useful!
A song until now never heard in this world,
only in that one -
here is the music of flesh,
the seal of reality.
The foreplay of Lover and Beloved is the path to annihilation.
It is where we get the concept of Zero;
One is not enough, Two is too many.
The outbreath and inbreath consummate
their marriage in stillness.
"I do" is a mantra that dissolves
both bride and groom in the cup of Unknowing.
Renew your vows with each inhalation;
that is how to make this union last.
When the
golden dahlia bursts,
do you count the petals?
When the Friend appears at the door of your chest,
do you notice two brown feet like withered roses
crushing the clusters of your heart?
Blinded to every abyss but God,
you see a radiant darkness at the center
of the sun, and you become
the gaze that gazes at you.
Grace is a dagger, not an abstraction.
The first gasp of this life was ignited
by the final pulse of that one.
The cup overflows because the wine steward
cannot stop pouring.
The sommelier himself is drunk.
This is not a miracle, just physics.
It’s how
otherness tops off the self,
and you become a fragrance
to intoxicate the Friend.
Are you an image in an attic mirror, or a blossom
rooted in the mud of kisses and tears?
If the wanderer can’t find her way Home,
Home returns to the wanderer.
Thinking climaxes in silence, modesty sinks
in billows of astonishment.
There is no island to swim to -
no rhythmic breast-stroke of prayer,
merely a fin slicing through wavelessness.
Now a voice
cries through your lips:
"I drown in love!"
The Friend replies, "You have no choice."
This moment
of foam on the milk ocean,
this ripple on the birth-death sea,
this teardrop in eternity
was churned up by yearning
for only this: the name of Krishna
savored on your tongue,
more luscious than the silence
that cannot contain its secret,
its hymn.
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