Returning

I keep returning to diamond silence
through the dissolving Name,
the ever-virgin mantra who disrobes
her veils of music to bathe
in the throb of the void.

Unplucked harp strings somehow
singing in an empty room.
Curves of the vina, the shape
of her vanishing body.
She is woven into everything.
I am the weaver.
Whoever understands this
is a newborn child.


I watched the Master dancing
in the mist at the edge of a meadow
one sultry evening in July,
his white gown disappearing
in mad ambiguous rays
of the full moon.
Drums, gazes, heat lightning inside us.
We wept.
He was teaching us
not to cling.
Whoever understands this
is a newborn child.

Without the breath of the Master,
this body is a lump of dust.
Without the Guru's glance
these asanas and pranayams,
these Vedic chants and tantras,
are bags of ashes lifted by tired bones.
No mind has ever liberated itself
through its own work.
Whoever understands this
enters the sacred garden
of bewilderment.

From the moment of conception
I’ve been thirsting for that milk.
I was already in the Mother,
but I had to depart
in order to find her nipple

Whoever breathed me into form,
I now return to those lips
on the wings of So'ham.
If you understand this
you are a born lover.

The sparkle of knowledge is snuffed out
as soon as I fall asleep.
But the silence between the stars
is everlasting.
I am That.
Here’s the secret, friend.
Don't grasp for light.
Let light pour out of your darkness.