Spirit dons a cloak of illusion for obvious reasons.
Do we really need to go into details? If so, then
here is one story which lovers love to share:
It’s a shutters-shut slice of late afternoon swoon-time.
We are happy, smiling – two bodies shining towards
each other, each of us nearly blinding the other.
We mirror the happiness of mindless embodiment,
consciousness surrendered to its own bliss in a timeless
place where we now exist as the radiance of emptiness.
I kneel before you. You are the one I came to worship.
You are propped against a cushion of sun and shade,
adorned in the form of the particular Beloved.
Ripe as Rasa’s fragrance in the sunrise vineyards,
once again animating these forms of irresistible attraction,
there’s no difference between us save in the angle of fusion.
Choice or choiceless – the sudden surging of God’s
own blood clarifies any confusion. The three times tilt
on the cusp of our rapture as everything becomes us.
What presses so urgently through these shimmering forms,
like waves of pure moonlight flooding through the crumbled
portals of some ancient temple, a temple of our patient longing,
or like summer-sewn winds through red-rust nets on long-ago
forsaken fences, stretching over the rounded ridges of pastures
passed on a journey nobody has ever embarked upon,
a picture-perfect pathway to a mythical Lost Coast, we can
never explain, but only marvel at in the intimacy my awe shares
with your delight, my “Ah” with your “Aye”, one sigh between us,
one sacred syllable ever rising in the sensuous spaciousness
of our synchronous penetration, the matrix of our reunion
in life after life, one heart after breaking heart.