The moon

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.