Our drop-souls are of the ocean of Truth, their bubbles are bright snares
Which keep us in the sea of Illusion playing ‘musical chairs.’
My trouble began when a madman whispered a word in my ear –
A word, a name – and I became mad that its form should appear.
If the Beloved had not always been with us how could we be going to Him?
Every bubble-change of the long sea-way has been because of, and through Him.
Awake and sing! all you that float on the ocean of Illusion,
For the Beloved is here – and in Him there is no exclusion.
Singing’s His weakness. Evolution was nothing else than improving His throat —
Perfecting his original, ancient One-singing phrase by phrase, note by note.
Time is the distance between two bubbles. Short time, long time, according to
Brightness or dullness, homogeneity and hue.
Time’s a poor fellow, hat in hand, begging extension of service;
Yet, inexplicably, at the sight of him we become nervous.
The world is being run on time, by time, and at no time are we free
Just to sit and enjoy even the outward of the Beloved’s beauty.
One night in a wine-bubble blown by my sigh
I saw the procession of nations go by.