The sun’s heart burns like fire cannot burn.
Crossing the sky, it kneels to kiss the earth –
and is swallowed by a wine-dark sea.
We see everywhere the reason for the sun:
It is life, light, time.
But to it, are we larger than a pebble,
circumambulating the mountain like a homesick flea?
The sun’s heart burns without purpose.
It loves only to know love;
showering the emptiness of space, unbounded,
always giving, never conscious of return.
Today, two white orbs, dotted with green
reflect a light that can never be contained;
swept a million miles into dream
by a Heart more ardent than flame.
Even as a sun’s love finally
created the hearts who adore it:
Love only to love,
and the Beloved will appear.
Crossing the sky, it kneels to kiss the earth –
and is swallowed by a wine-dark sea.
We see everywhere the reason for the sun:
It is life, light, time.
But to it, are we larger than a pebble,
circumambulating the mountain like a homesick flea?
The sun’s heart burns without purpose.
It loves only to know love;
showering the emptiness of space, unbounded,
always giving, never conscious of return.
Today, two white orbs, dotted with green
reflect a light that can never be contained;
swept a million miles into dream
by a Heart more ardent than flame.
Even as a sun’s love finally
created the hearts who adore it:
Love only to love,
and the Beloved will appear.