Saturday, March 5, 2016
Roll out your prayer mat,
the old man advised, in the bazaar
among the fishmongers, fruitsellers,
tinkers, potters, the various wallas.
Pray until all the hubbub penetrates
but does not stain nor lead astray.
If you wander that maze, enticed
by scents, sights and sounds, advocacies,
you're liable to twist and turn, dawdle and dash,
push and stumble, dispute and cajole,
become hopelessly lost -
unless you carry with you
that portable, durable refuge,
to recapture at any moment
your composure among the enticing merchandise,
the hawking vendors, the milling crowd.
And one day, it is foretold, you'll become lost
within its folds - that old prayer mat rolled up,
tucked under the arm of the Master
Who then will carry you home.
O child of God, Meher said it's time to stop
playing with the scintillating toys of illusion,