Sometimes I wonder how it was that I wandered into this street
Where each grain of dust is a bell that chimes under the Master’s feet,

And upturned, is a glass held out to him to fill
With sweet wine on the occasions of the flow of his sweet will.

How was it that I, a barbarian from a far land,
Unschooled in love and song received both as a gift from his hand?

In the mountains, it is said, there are great hermit-sages
Who have not yet been privileged to suffer love’s sweet rages.

In cities are men of honest learning who are not called
To God’s wineshop to buy drunkenness with the coin of verse-gold.

And there are men who in men’s service keep themselves poor,
But never in a lifetime are summoned to his door.

Yet I, an ignorant and mean fellow, was led to this street
To mingle my voice with dust-bells which praise the Beloved’s feet.


A personal confession of wonder at the enormous treasure of intimacy bestowed on Francis Brabazon. Why him?

Perhaps we all need to remember that the Master chooses as He wishes and by criteria of which we have little clue.

Here each grain of dust is like a moment of consciousness filled with the music of the presence. Both external and internal worlds open to Him.

This Avatar seems to have specialised in picking needy beggars with their share of problems and defects! And someone had to write in the language of those barbarians.

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