I dwell in dust and sing, and my song is most sweet;
For although I lie prostrate I do not entreat.

I would not wish to be less than the seasons which wait their turn,
Nor than fire hidden in wood to burst into life and burn.

My Beloved spins the earth on the tip of one finger;
Why should I cry for gifts, he will not forget his singer.

They who ask God to fulfil their desires have no faith in him,
For the essence of faith is to abide the Beloved’s whim.

I hold out my cup for him to fill at his pleasure—
Now, or at World’s End, it will be the same full measure.

Waiting is easy for me—I spent a million years as a stone,
And then millions more shaping my ears to receive song’s golden tone.

Now my waiting is praising, and my praising is sweet,
For although I lie prostrate I do not entreat.


A circling back to the beginning. Taking its cue perhaps from the previous poem that the whole crazy world is in God’s hands, this poem sings its song from the dust. He accepts time rather than trying to conquer it.

Praising reality becomes sweet when we can accept it as it is, waiting with patience. A bit like the tramps in Waiting For Godot except there is joy rather than bitterness at the delay. Poverty is a blessing here. What you believe about the nature of the self makes all the difference. The Beloved is never absent if the waiting is not clouded with impatience. Even world calamity cannot change this. This is a poem of utter trust.

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