At dawn, the moon,
like a creature of fantasy,
stole into my room
and woke me from some
lazy and unproductive sleep.
Her face quickly illuminated
the underside of my soul
and my own being stood
revealed in the naked light.
Sighing in wonder,
I faced my Self, which said:
"Your life so far has chased
the illusion of control:
You will not meet me on that path.
One flash of my glance
is worth a thousand years of piety."
Overcome by waste and loss,
my soul endarkened itself with shame.
But my moon-faced Self,
whose radiance equaled the sun,
filled a cup of Direct Experience
and urged me to drown my despair:
"No bouquet... no flavor...
but this wine can wash away
your being's whole historical library."
I finished the cup in one gulp,
and, intoxicated by its purity,
fell to the earth.
Since then I am not sure
whether I am here or not.
Neither sober nor drunk,
sometimes I feel the joy of
my soul's eyes looking through mine.
Other times I feel the curl of its hair
and my life bobs and weaves.
Sometimes, from sheer habit,
I'm back on the compost heap.
And sometimes,
when that glance finds me again,
I am back in the Rose Garden.
