I pray for this poem (which I intend) to be a prayer
trampled in a field of fresh snow,
making sense only
when viewed from a great height;
not merely a shadow of life and death
but, the difference between
solace and grief, hope and despair.
I pray for your poems, too, o lovers of God;
your prayers, too – ink, oils or clay ...
eye, throat, shoulders, thighs.
May you reach that purity of breath,
blood and bone – poetry beyond sound and form;
may your blood run its tireless course
from the moon’s blotched surface
to the rich earth beneath the snow
and your bones ... your bones -- may they turn up
in the spring, in green fields,
bleached evidence of fallen soldiers,
lest future lovers fail to recognize us –
an enclave and asylum of poets, comrades,
artists, lovers and seekers of Truth in these mad
and turbulent, early post-advent years of Meher Baba.
O child of God, say your poetry and your prayers
with precisely the same fervor and devotion.