We set out in the long-ago, in the dawn of Creation.
We set out singing in a sort of a nude jubilation.
In a moment of aberration I thought I saw the Beloved,
Quite forgetting that from my station no glimpse may be had of the Beloved.
The immensity of a past that had no beginning,
Of a future which will have no end: this is my singing;
Slowly, slowly the drop-lover rises from the tangled sea floor;
Slowly, at last, by wave and current he makes his way to the shore.
Nothing into nothing, and a chasm created by grief!
Pour wine, Beloved, for your lovers lest I strain their belief.
If we expect rewards, we have gone over to the Beloved’s enemies.
Even realization of Self – our right – will be when the Beloved shall please.
How can He who eternally is be other than what He is?
If today He breaks his word, tomorrow He will fulfil His promise.
We are all vagrants living from hand to mouth a day at a time
Wave-riding, current-rafting, having broken free from the sea-slime.
We have no way of sounding the depths of Is-ness of Him,
We have no way of measuring the extent of His divine whim.