He, the One, is the flaming light,
He also is the tomb,
And He the candle set on the tomb;
But the delight of self-annihilation
Falls only to the encircling moth.
Thou didst not learn from the nightingale
The secret of independence.
O Nightingale!
This garden is a prison
Only as long as we regard it as home.
O Fowler!
As long as I warble contentedly
The garden remains aflame,
But all this fulguration of agony will cease
When once I have abandoned the nest.
I am a dust-heap
Haunted by the fragrance of musk.
Cares have made me a wilderness.
Do not ask for my boundaries,
They embrace both heaven and earth.
I myself am the bell,
Its music sleeps in my veins.
This my silence
Will end when the caravan moves
Through stillness of heart
Create the means to expansion.
There are no more eddies and whirlpools
When once the waters are stilled.
The weeping of the melting candle
Does not solicit a tear from the eye.
Learn, O heedless one,
That there is sovereign independence
In the melting of the heart.

Poem by Swami Rama Tirtha

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