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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