When You embrace me on the inside from all around
by pushing me tightly into the last drop of my fountain,
while concurrently outbursting from beneath the ground
where a slender sprout drinks at the back of my mountain,
growing that wonder by outpouring Yourself in every sense
beyond the breaths of petals of the entirety while dividing,
when the seemingly two of You meet each other’s essence
in full bloom with inverted bloom, me wholly subsiding,
who am I to sing of it as if I were in its precious presence,
who am I to write it down as if I knew what I was describing?
I cannot bow to You, O Goddess, because
You paralyzed my devoted body, ready it to conquer.
I cannot sing to You, O Goddess, because
You cut my throat, ravishing me to tongueless wonder.
I cannot think of You, O Goddess, because
You banished from my mind any thought to ponder.
How can You be so beautiful?
Come to my maṇḍala by branching Yourself to bhuvanas
from the unreachable abode where we can’t go, none of us.
If I am asking, am I a fool?
Despite the inept attempts put into my endeavor,
show Your glory, O Goddess, O Dea of deva.
If I had eyes,
I would weep violent rivers out of exaltation
in which even the best swimmer would drown.
The touch itself sees You, exceeding every feeling.
Blinded, I can’t keep my heart, which You’re stealing
while piercing me with the blaze of Your burning dawn.
I bow to submit to Your Love’s sweet pain,
like a trembling brittle leaf under heavy rain.
If I had a voice,
I would sing symphonies out of lamentation
so loud that roaring lions would be ashamed.
My grief, not kissing Your footprints, seeks relief,
turning my burning lips to speechless belief.
Let my soul in Your whirl-dance be inflamed.
In vain, bedridden, I try my breath to take
when You seize my ‘me’ for Your own sake.
If I had hands,
I would write epic poems out of veneration
such that the ocean couldn’t wash away all their ink.
But I can make only zeroes and ones with my heart
limiting my expression to a flame-flickering art.
Of depicting Your every smile I can’t even think.
What the flutter of a wingless dragonfly can veil
that the body of sacrifice writes in precise detail.
If I had a stomach,
I would eat You to satiety, to full satisfaction,
such that white would pale, unable to hold all the colors.
I would roll You over and over in my mouth to savor,
take all the flowers from Your garden’s favor,
and examine all Your body’s letters like scholars.
Let’s eat You gliding the heights of clouds, seduced,
like black-winged sooty terns who land only to roost.
Let my prayer alone pray You when my life has waned
as You occupy my heart which You have utterly drained.
You crushed its cage and seized my startled dove
by avidly playing eruptions of ardent fervid Love.