The storm of love is raging,
I do not need the tavern now.
My own blood is the wine,
My heart the roasted meat,
And I have not leisure for a wine-glass.
The intoxication has mounted high.
Say what you like, I care not,
The world is a thing of nought in my eyes;
But this is no vulgar madness.
Farewell, disease of the world,
Farewell body, farewell breath,
Farewell hunger and thirst!
This place is not a rest-house for wayfarers.
What strange incandescence
Lies in this flame of beauty!
No moth can withstand it.
The sun, the moon, the school,
The garden, the mountain ranges—
All are but waves in thine own beauty.
No other form exists but it.
People say: “The sun is in eclipse.”1 It is an error;
It is they themselves who are in darkness.
In me there is no shadow And nothing is hid.
Rise, life-breath!
Abandon the body,
And dissolve in Rama.
Let the body turn cold as stone,
Like the image in the temple of Badri.

Poem by Swami Rama Tirtha


Tomb—the body.
Camels in caravans wear bells to help them keep together on the march.

 

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