Scent of Jasmine

Without the grace of the Friend,

it is only a word, a sound.

By the grace of the Friend,

it is an ocean of fire, the music

of annihilation.

Without the grace of the Friend,

it is effort, control, concentration.

By the grace of the Friend,

it is whirling, widening,

forever falling, being held.

Without the grace of the Friend,

it is only the mind

trapped in concepts like “enlightenment.”

By the grace of the Friend,

there are no concepts,

only the physiology of starlight,

every neuron immersed

in the nectar of the sun.

What is your name?

"She Who Sings Me."

What beats my heart?

The nearness of a trembling veena string

as you touch an even quieter string

somewhere beyond.

I bow down, bow down, bow down.

Yet even bowing happens

by the grace of the Friend.