That’s the story,
told by a lover’s whimpers in the night,
a remembrance of times past, before past, –
alone in the unseen depths of pre-existence.
Now born, alight with fire like a lambent urge of light,
seeking out our Guide’s true Lamp – Father of All –
Oh lonely candle!
“How can utter nothingness
gallop its steed in the field of pre-existence?”
Or the fleeting shadow, me,
give account before the everlasting Sun…?
To poems I grant the like –
the poetry of my heart –
the cries of an oft-perturbèd soul.
Come my friend, let the night address us
one last time
before the End.
told by a lover’s whimpers in the night,
a remembrance of times past, before past, –
alone in the unseen depths of pre-existence.
Now born, alight with fire like a lambent urge of light,
seeking out our Guide’s true Lamp – Father of All –
Oh lonely candle!
“How can utter nothingness
gallop its steed in the field of pre-existence?”
Or the fleeting shadow, me,
give account before the everlasting Sun…?
To poems I grant the like –
the poetry of my heart –
the cries of an oft-perturbèd soul.
Come my friend, let the night address us
one last time
before the End.