The tracks we follow lead back to the place from where we came.
We are mighty hunters—but we ourselves are the game.

The Beloved whom we have enthroned in our hearts
Is our own Self— but of love we suffer the darts.

This is why we are the most foolish men alive:
Out of simple truth a great puzzle we contrive.

It was we in the first place who planted the vine—
Yet we take our cups to another to fill with wine.

We were born men—yet we turned ourselves into misses
Desiring more than anything else a certain Man’s kisses.

Here, the ‘monotheists’ indeed will have a great laugh—
Yet, such is our fare, their food is nothing but straw chaff.

We know all about ‘oneness,’ but delight in love’s game.
They are dry sticks, we are moths— both fuel for the one flame.


The absurdity and the wonders of the bhaktic path. Francis is fully aware of the contradictions but surrender to love is the treasure game – way better than theoretical Vedantists and Monists. Sure we know, we know, that the Beloved is One, that He is our Self, that this love pursuit has its ridiculous side. But O the game of love of His and our pursuit!

A very wise and a very frank poem. Careful Francis you are almost giving the secret away and spoiling the game. Notice how ‘game’ can have two meanings here. 

If we are to be consumed in the flame of extinction why not do it with the dance and the flare of the moth.

We know all is one but we behave like skittish misses needing His wooing. But love is the food of paradise. To be able to treat it lightly like this is a measure of great freedom.

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