I want to know Your language
(having come to the end of mine)
following Your dove-like hands
intent upon telling me the Truth,
but invariably I lose my bearings
amid the flurried sleight-of-hand.
But perhaps Your telling is not for me
to grasp the truth but to let go
of a lifetime of what I have taken to be true,
its reality in Your hands
of a lifetime of what I have taken to be true,
its reality in Your hands
proven so patently short of the mark.
Someday (You promise) I’ll learn
the gist of Your immaculate fluency
and bow out of the conversation,
there having been said between us
all there ever need be said.
O child of God, so many words you use
to express your desire for Meher’s silence.
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