Sometimes you enter the heart. Sometimes
you're born from the soul. Sometimes you
weep a song of separation: all the same
glory. You live in beautiful forms and
you're the energy that breaks images. All
light, neither this nor that. Human beings
go places on foot; angels, with wings. Even
if they find nothing but ruins and failure,
you're the bright core of that. When angels
and humans are free of feet and wings, they'll
understand that you are that lack, pure
absence. You're in my eyes like a taste of
wine that blocks my understanding. That
ignorance glorifies. You talk and feel in
the talking: kingdom, finances, fire, smoke,
the senses, incense: all are your favourites!
A ship, Noah, blessings, luck, troubles that
pull us unknowingly toward treasure: look,
he's being dragged away from his friends!
Nobody will see him anymore. This is your
story. I ask you, "Should I talk to this one?
Is he being drawn to me?" Silence. That too.
What is desire? What is it! Don't laugh, my
soul. Show me the way through this desiring.
All the world loves you, but you are nowhere
to be found. Hidden and completely obvious.
You are the soul! You boil me down in a
saucepan, then ask why I'm spilling out. Is
it time for patience? Your bright being. My
heart is a saucepan. This writing, the record
of being torn apart in your fire, as aloe
wood most becomes itself when burning up.
Enough talk about burning! Everything, even
the end of this poem, is a taste of your glory.