O Tell Them

Inhalation rises from belly to crown,
bursting silently in sky-blue no-self.
Exhalation sinks in luscious black-hole
just beneath your breastbone.
This nectar that you call a breath 

is no mere gift of stillness, air,
but the body of the Goddess
soft as cotton down spun
of diamond fibers from farthest stars.
Your vertebrae a winding
feral electric stairs
where angels ascend and descend.
Selah.
Her lance is your vagus nerve,
keen as lightning, piercing your lungs
with a rhythmic gentle thrusting
that moves your snake-skin soul
out of death, into love.
Do not try to comprehend her.
Goddess Shakti cannot be known,
only tasted, only touched like a pillow
filled with maddened bees.
Lay your head upon her breast and
get stung with the venom of emptiness.

O tell them, Kabir! They will not listen to me.
She is the strong stuff inside
the wine sack of breathing.
She is the warrior’s sword that cleaves

all hearts with one stroke, 

severing the spirit from the soul.
The mind slayer, whose nipples 

express the milk of ecstasy for those of us
who were never born.

Painting by Persian master Mahmoud Farshchian