Like a flower which blooms in secret,
hiding her face from the world,
and wilts until the morning,
in absolute silence,
so is the heart of man.
Like a most delicate flower of the moon,
arising and dying unseen,
because any biting look crushes her –
breathing the perfume of high crests,
so is the heart of man.
For You are the moon watching
from behind auspicious clouds,
and all queens of the night
bloom only for You,
Father of sweetness, and of mysteries.
* This poem was inspired by the blog post A bloom of Joy – the mystical Brahma Kamal. Thank you for the wonders you share with us!
Our house has no curtains,
hence we are open to solitude.
Our house has no perfume,
it’s not yet carnation’s time to bloom.
We laugh a lot between the walls
of our miraculous home –
it is usually a little cold,
so we hold each other very tight.
You have prepared our home
before you knew I would come,
and there is nothing missing
except the curtain with tufts,
but I guess you’ll arrange it alone.
I looked for You
because no candle can burn
I am more serious than death
most of the time,
although I hide behind a smile.
Preachers come and go
from this land,
but You are never silent.
I take cover in cricket’s song,
in the valley of chestnuts
whenever night falls suddenly,
yet since You hatch eggs
in stork nests,
I don’t mind the bad weather.
Do not fret, heart of mine,
minsters shine in the distance.
The sea bows to you,
the asphalt keeps your footprints,
birds come on branches at your calling,
the sky and earth gather in you.
We pick bread-crumbs
mostly in the dark,
but only morning truly feeds us
with its eternal sunrise.
My darling, stop for a moment
to listen to your heart beat,
in this great passing
from non-being to being.
My darling, hold my hand,
and let us watch together
this so subtle transformation
of caterpillars into butterflies.
I look at the moon,
in this everlasting silence,
I shoot all the stars
just to see them falling
into your palms.
I don’t know when love was born,
or if it has a name,
I think it feeds on grass,
I think it makes the rain sing
on my windows at night.
I have faith in you,
for roses flourish in your thoughts
with the power of a forbearing lion,
and I am utterly dressed up in you,
like an old snow covered fir tree.
It really smells like incense,
all of a sudden,
in this house you’ve built for us,
where each small thing has its place,
where nothing is lost.
The lake is frozen,
the reed is still,
our eyes are aching
from the whiteness of field.
We’re resting a little
before summoning spring.
You bring me
closer to my heart.
I rest in your look,
which rakes the horizon.
I rest in your words,
under your palms
my sea settles down.
I bring you
more home that you ever were.
Somebody is painting our way
in shades of blue.
At the end of the world there is a blue ship,
climbing through dreams, a longing in the window.
At the end of the world an angel awaits,
watching by the oak tree with wise leaves.
At the end of the world, like the midday sun,
stopping the future billy goats falter.
At the end of the world, the mystery, giving birth
to the springs of life, arises two celestial bodies.
At night’s margins, a thought like a beast
roars and bellows, with violin tongue.
At sea’s margins, in the story hour,
the Song of Songs, like none other is.