Back to the Garden

Back to the Garden

These are the heart tears, tinged with blood;
my Beloved knows every hidden grief.

I try to be strong for You
but we both know how crippled I am.

Won't You carry me for a ways?
That I might bury my face in Your throat.

That I might be held, body and soul,

nearer to You. O Beloved,

 

stay within my sight –

Your pink coat, sheer sadra, flowing hair.

Keep glancing over Your shoulder to make sure 
I am there – in earshot of Your handclap.

My heart, Lord, is Yours to range freely, until the day
the whole realm of my being lies under Your chappals.

O child of God, the heart is a mountainous country;
             beautiful valleys to cross.
Your Beloved walks it with you; back to the garden
              from which you came.

Crushed

Crushed
 
You are infinitely and eternally free
and yet, You are bound to us . . .
 
and bound by our limitations.
The garb of Infinite Power, You laid aside
 
to walk among us in the flesh.
The harvest of an entire vineyard,
 
crushed and poured into one bottle, and then,
that rare wine is handed around among the multitudes.
 
Ancient One, You donned yet another lovely coat
to roam this dusty world!
 
Patched and threadbare after a time,
You discarded it.
 
Countless ages ago, a naked God
put on the garment of Illusion.
 
One day, Illusion will be cast off,
like a threadbare coat.
 
Then, Your lovers will find their way home,
surrendering in one last, unencumbered embrace.
 
O child of God, drink from that ageless bottle
and cling to the garment that veils the Essence.

Beautiful souls

Beautiful souls
 
You bathed the feet of lepers,
rinsing away centuries of accumulated dirt.
 
Then You touched Your holy forehead
to their distended stumps.
 
Beautiful souls in ugly cages, You called them.
Only You could see their true beauty.
 
In the years I have been with you, Lord,
parts of me have atrophied and fallen away.
 
Through the eyes of the world,
I now seem disfigured; crippled and useless.
 
I am a beggar at Your door, desperate to remain
in Your good graces.
I am slowly dying, one appurtenance at a time.
 
O Beloved, let the beautiful flame of a bird within me
sing fervently among these ruins!
 
Let me serenade You as the cage that entraps me
cracks and rusts away.
 
O child of God, rejoice within your ugly cage.
Your Beloved is that beautiful bird that flares and sings
          brightly within you.

Your brush strokes

Your brush strokes
 
Tonight, as these prayers are being said,
looking out upon the bowed heads of Your lovers,
 
in my heart, also, heads are bowed.
Voices blending in arti; there are voices
          and harmonies within me as well.
 
And, as I kneel for Your darshan,
in the tomb-shrine of my heart, there is, also, a kneeling.
 
On this nondescript hill, a small group of Your lovers
has gathered tonight from around the world.
 
We have come to bow down to the holiest part within us
          and all human beings.
What a long journey to reach this humble abode!
 
O Beloved, in Your Tomb-Shrine I have found my refuge.
In the shrine of my heart, let me offer You refuge.
 
Paint the walls within it in Your lovely brush strokes,
scenes from a life of purity and holy Love.
 
O child of God, garland the stone of your heart-shrine.
Prepare it lovingly for the arrival of the Guest.