How strange that I sought you for so long; when Yours were the eyes I looked with all along... In Your voice, I cried out; on Your feet, I carried on; with Your mind I dreamt my troubled dreams. If only I'd paid more attention I might have noticed: Whenever You breathed, I exhaled; whenever Your eyes closed I laid myself to rest. If the moon believes it shines with its own light, yell up to Heaven: "Not quite!" If not for the Sun, we would know the moon only by its nothingness: the occlusion of nearby stars. Hence the mystic is nothing -- a void; when he shines you see only the Sun. He has no voice of his own; no feet to carry him on; no sight, no mind: All that he has is borrowed. Know who you are without Him and perhaps you will know Him without you.