Meher Baba's flag

Love's vernacular

Love’s vernacular                                                                                    

No wonder You kept silent.  No one

knew what You were talking about!

Mighty lonesome in a world where

so rarely spoken is love's vernacular. 

O, how You roared and raged;

shouted;  paced Your cage.

Your silence fell upon deaf ears. 

All Your efforts were about love.

Love, we know not the meaning of the word.

And our own silence – we reject out of hand,

deathly afraid of it – the silence of submission;

the silence of non-existence.

O child of God, why speak of Meher?

Silence is the language of love.

Tinsmith

Tinsmith                                                                                                    

Mani gave the figure of a tinsmith

hammering a bowl into shape,

his other hand hidden,

supporting the blows from beneath.

With the mandali, You were exacting –

(merciless as the law of karma),

hammering home, time and again,

restraint, discipline and obedience,

Your rebukes tempered afterwards

with love-gestures and divine pardon.

With lovers afar (and yet to come)

You stressed remembrance and devotion,

allowing Illusion to deliver

the shaping blows, presenting Yourself

as the forbearing Companion,

the One Whose love is unconditional.

O child of God, each according to its ripeness;

the depth of its slumber.