Saturday, November 30, 2013

Foreign shore

Foreign shore

The dot of an umbrella thwarting 
the mighty sun and the rain -- imagine that!

The ball of an eye
containing mountains.

God (You say) is the Ocean of Love.
Why on earth then, is Love such a rarity?

If it shines everywhere, falls like rain
and I don't know enough to strip down

and run around in it, why then
is there such a longing in my soul?

One cup of wine -- I get weepy, incoherent.
Imagine an ocean of it!

I'm too small to drown, too lightweight,
too hard-shelled to soak It up

and sink to the bottom.  Grimly, I clutch
that bit of debris known as other-than-Ocean,

floating, ever floating, upon the surface
of my obliteration and liberation,

tossed up again and again
onto the wild, foreign shore.

Otherness is illusion, Meher said.
You and I are not we, but One.

O child of God, otherness is illusion.
You and the Ocean are not two, but One.


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