You, Beloved

You
who lives inside of me
though I keep looking for you
in the outer world;
you
whose fire immolates my heart
without completely killing it,
threading it, instead,
thin and empty
like the rose of the sky;
you
who loved me
before I had a name,
before my parents bore me;
you
who will subsume my being
as I surrender my breath and die;
you, beloved,
crushing me with longing
and making sure
that I won’t survive
unless I become a thread
in the book of love.

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La femme que j’aime n’existe pas

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas
et pourtant je ne peux abandonner
ma recherche pour elle ;
et ça, cette recherche,
ce pèlerinage infini
qui va comme un cercle
tournant et tournant
au milieu du cœur de l’amour –
cette brulure, ce délire,
cette espérance futile mais inépuisable –
c’est le poème –
l’offrande de mon âme
dans le feu de son autel.

Du poème je suis…

Du poème
je suis ce qui lutte
à te toucher,
cette lumière
qui approfondit sa pureté
dans son désir
à fleurir dans ta peau ;
du poème
je suis ce silence
qui écoute
ton cœur battre
dans la chair du monde,
je suis cette voix
qui s’est perdue dans le vent
il y a des siècles
et qui cherche à jamais
à se dissoudre
dans l’intime de ton souffle.

Du poème
je suis cette attente
qui déchire mon cœur
et le remplit du silence
de ta voix.

Ode to Life

In the dawn it was easy to look at her and say
That she looked beautiful like a tender array
Of moss and dew fallen from the light
Of poetry and milk churned to a white

But night came and always the gaze in her eyes
Glared with a fearful heave of burning sighs
That easily consumed eons of time
Scattering their ashes in the sky’s soundless chime

The light and the dark in her can foretell
The eternal circle and the binding spell
Of a world spinning in harmony and strife
In the breast of her whose name is Life

The Mystery of Your Ways

By the jasmine tree,
under the moon at dawn
I am waiting for you,
your silence since long
arrived before you
but only now
have I begun to hear
the whisper of your voice,
your silence since long
announced your presence
but only now
am I beginning to feel
the freshness of your breath,
and as I walk away at last,
as I walk away
into the rising day
a strange power carries me on
almost like a wave,
imperceptible, unexplainable,
asking me to let go,
to trust and surrender
to the mystery of your ways.

Letter, August 13, 2017

Tell them I spent my life banished amid the pages of books, reading, feverishly, fluttering like a firefly amid words of darkness and light. Tell them that in the pages of books I found myself entangled like a bee stuck in honey, like a lover’s fingers in his beloved’s hair. Tell them that, contrary to what they think, it is no wasted life, it is a life of solitary abundance, a life of living at the source of what makes humanity great, and what makes life worth striving for, worth living. Tell them that I have been blessed, to read, to be able to read a fragment of that which is truly, spiritually great. Tell them that in an age of anxiety, of spiritual crisis, I have dared, through books, to gaze at the future, to imagine a different future, and that through these visions I strived to birth and live my life, my present, my spirit and state of mind. Tell them, beloved, that amid the pages of books I have loved and been loved, made friendships the likes of which are so rare on earth, shed tears, oh so bitter tears, rejoiced and found a joy that is simple like flowers and grass growing in a fallow field. Tell them, beloved.

Because Love Has to Be Given

What have you been doing all these years?—
Because love has to be given,
I have been writing to an imaginary lover,
Exhausting into ink the infinite longing
In my aching heart.

Why prolong and deepen your suffering?—
Because love has to be given,
And he who hasn’t felt the urge
Will not know this overpowering need,
Will not know that this urge to give
Is the primal reason of his being,
The motor of his life.

Is this not creating a schism with reality?—
That, my friend, to the sober minded
Is indeed the only possibility,
But I beg you, with whatever heart there is in you
Feel into the grandness of this vision,
Try and glance into its depth and light,
As it takes hold of you
Feel how above and beyond
All psychological and rational chatter it is;
Its reason lies in the irrationality of the heart,
And whoever does not know it will not know
How the heart grasps and lives its truth.

How can you deprive yourself of girls for the sake of love?—
Your eye immediately veered towards the denial
And this, my friend, betrays you,
Speaks your own limited but healthy state of mind,
It saddens my heart to see you so belittled,
A speck instead of the mountain and the sea
Which are open to you — if you only dare!
If your desire was not so limited
As to apprehend the desire of the flesh
But not of the soul!

No, there is deprivation here, my friend, no denial,
Here we rise only on the strength of an affirmation,
Here the dark cloud of denial will not be allowed
To tarnish the face of the beloved,
Here only the affirmation of love sways
And on the strength of this affirmation
New modes of valuation are shaped,
And a new vision of life is possible
And a higher principle of health
Is indeed acquired!

Ah, but how can I plant it in you, my friend,
The holy seed of envy
That will crack your soil and raise you
To the height of a vision
That you have barely allowed yourself to entertain?
In this age of players why not be a lover?
In this age that values most of all the pleasure of the moment,
The pleasure of the immediate,
Why not think the impossible and strive towards that
Which grows stronger even in its pain and ache?

My wish is for a thorn in your heart
And for a hammer that breaks it!
My wish is for you to rise to your own height
And learn the mastery of your impulses,
The control and sublimation of your desires,
So that, one day, and if you are lucky enough,
You may offer your whole life
On the banquet of love.