The day you’re awake,
You’re searching since then,
The beginning and the end of essence,
Running after every method,
Inventing sciences and arts,
Enmeshed in rituals and prayers,
For the union of you with Yourself;
Your light and shadow,
Your pleasure and sorrow,
Your being and nothingness.
Your search is always for the One,
Who is nowhere therefore everywhere.
The One who was with you,
Nurturing in the purest Love.
The One who alchemises a little piece of clay into miracle;
Who can feel and imagine,
The profoundest layers of existence.
Who can sing and dance,
Without any cause.
The music does not have a destination,
Therefore, it heals the hopeless malaise of self.
Dance does not have to reach anywhere,
Therefore, it is already there.
The only One who can; love without possessing;
care without any expectation of return;
And let the loved one be unafraid and free forever.
If that Gardener is here,
Indwelling the infinite space,
And inhabiting the silences of time,
Why are the trees anxious for the fruits?
If the nature of garden is to blossom;
Why the trees do not trust;
The kaleidoscopic hope of the spring;
Its wholeness and random order.
Her action is selfless,
Therefore, every tree is settled,
In Love and Harmony.
The priest of method,
Wants a veil of rules to cover,
The secret treasure of heart.
Their mystical business is to
change values into the weighing prices,
The caring touch into the practical transactions.
The purest business sprouts ,
In the kindest endowment,
Where one sacrifices his sense of self,
Without being aware of such transactions.
Like inhaling and exhaling;
Inspiration and expiration.
The one who is aware of his existence does not exist.
The one who claims the crown of virtue is not virtuous.
The Gardener sacrifices herself,
Therefore, there is playfulness of eternal love and everlasting beauty.
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