Sweet on the tongue They gave You a lovely
name, sweet on the tongue – they called You Mercy. Other names would have
sufficed – Purity . . . Valor . . .
Fidelity – but not quite hit the
mark. Mercy is what we’re
begging for with Your name on our
lips. O Meher – Compassionate
One, sweet on the tongue, the sacred Rose around
which a multitude of
nightingales – Your name in their mouths
– gathers and sings, hoping
to catch Your ear. O child of God, the
Beloved has a thousand names. Call Him by the one that
drips like sugar from your lips and tongue.
Abandoned houses Tonight my
heart’s fire rages; nothing to do but throw
myself in the river flowing at my Beloved’s feet. Once, I
drifted free as a ghost. Now I am rooted in holy soil like the
neems and banyons on the path to my Beloved’s door. Under a
dormant sky, the restless ocean heaves and sighs. How can the
gulls, darting here and there, ever fathom its depths? Windows of
a long-shuttered room have been thrown open – to fresh
air and sunlight, music and laughter. Important
people of the world, sleep on – moving about in your
dreams; jabbing the air with your fingers. The mandali
are giving out holy prasad. Those old bodies remind me
of abandoned houses the winds blow through. O child of
God, your heart resides within His heart; wherever
your willfulness leads, remember, the Beloved goes
with you.
My green heart We must live for God and
die for God, You said. I once thought these were
two different things. Death approaching makes
brittle my bones. Greener and suppler is my
heart. Suppleness necessary for
yielding. Death necessary for new
growth. In the Tomb, while
sitting at Your feet, a fire ravaged my house. The floor of my chest
turned to burning coals. Underneath its blackened
rafters, settled among the ash, my green heart now is
weaving a nest. Wonderful things have
sprung up: songs of praise, tears of
gratitude; attempted fidelity, an
inchoate love . . . . Why not consider yourself
already dead? You asked. This makes sense to
me. I was born in Your Tomb. O child of God, one
morning the old shell gave way to new growth and turned
your blackened heart green.
Your silence is the sound Your silence is the sound
of the heart’s surrender, the dissolution of the
ego structure, the speechless wonder of
the mind when God steps through
the door. It is the sound of a
lover’s deep gaze, a tear sliding down the
cheek; the silence of a pilgrim
sinking to his knees, after so long a journey,
before the Tomb of his Lord. O Beloved, Your sound is
the silence of the Tomb itself, closed
for the night; the silence of the
painted images on its holy, stone walls. O child of God, why speak
of silence? The Beloved speaks
eternally within the human heart.
