Even if I do not know how to write,
you let me write
Even the occasional
You do so out of Your Compassion,
So that I may spend my time
thinking of You
and not my self.
How can I write anymore
if the pen in my hand
Can only move by a Force within me?
It is not I who write;
Writing is not for a caveman like me.
Writing is for the devotee who,
Even though he does not know anything
Still he wishes to worship You.
Once I tried to write a poem,
But I decided there was nothing to write about.
You have already written Everything.
Writing now would be
Like plucking a flower from a tree
And offering it to You.
You Yourself made the flower,
You Yourself made the tree,
You Yourself made me.
Why now You make me sleepy
When I finally want to write.
This is not at all right;
If it were so,
I should be able to wake myself
When I want to see You.
You opened a bakery and let me play
pretending I am the owner.
As the bread leavens,
So Your expectations of me grow.
Yet when they flourish,
I offer them to a customer
That they were born for You.
Today as I meditated
A stream of lines came.
As I hurriedly wrote them down
My pride grew and I forgot:
I forgot that it is You who made me,
You who woke me up,
You who made for me a shrine in the world,
You who made me meditate.
But you just *let* me write,
And I feel all responsible.
A flower lasts only so much,
But not You.
If we use the most beautiful words
for the flowers,
Then what words shall I use for You?
If You ever let me speak
through my pen
You would then
I could never say.
I wish I could be like You,
And not this life of rue,
Making lines out of the Blue,
Pretending them to be true.
Everybody speaks of a garland of gratitude.
I must be honest. I never made one.
Or at least, not one totally befitting You.
Therefore, I keep on writing.
How can a child repay its mother
for bringing him up?
How can a disciple repay his spiritual mother
for showing him his Guru?
Even a lifetime of gratitude
would not be enough.
Since I am still a mother’s child
and do not have full strength in my heart,
I know I cannot yet offer
a life complete of gratitude.
So I have resigned to writing poems.
Tonight I took up pen
To say I am the One Invincible,
But then I would have to prove myself.
Defense: what a useless waste of capacity.
Maybe I shouldn´t.
(say that or defend myself?)
Why do I take paper again
to write quasi-equal poems over and over –
have I nothing better to do?
A flower knows only how to bloom
and that is what it does.
That is what You gave the flower to do.
Likewise I write. That is all I know,
endless empty pages full of words.
Or then give me something else to do.
Wait. Have You done so already?
But even then I did not hear.
Is it that verily, what You want…
should I start…
listening to You?
A myriad number of lines
Hint at what You are
Just follow the strokes
But stop not where they end
Life is exactly that chore:
To find what lies beyond shore.
Yet left to write
I see You in black and white
More real than I ever could be
I see you in my dream
More real than I could ever seem
All these are mere words
– When will You be mine?
Glancing at the pages
yet left to write I
Your boyish smile.