A song rises from the crest of Meherabad Hill
and enters, also, my heart; sets my eyes to weeping.
A sacred rose opened perfectly in the garden
one February morning;
the honeybees flitting from flower to flower.
The banyan trees whisper to lovers climbing the Hill,
but only to the quiet ones, listening already with their
hearts.
That glorious morning I entered a proper pilgrim into Baba’s
Tomb.
Hours later, I emerged a drunkard, singing songs of the
Tavern.
Motor traffic on the road to Ahmednagar, shouts and loud
laughter.
All those people hurrying past the Tomb of my Beloved.
The night is deep and jeweled. From this Hill I could touch the moon.
Someone already has – leaving His prints on the old man’s
face.
O child of God, at Arti you wept through all three prayers.
How did you come to this place after so many years of
wandering?
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