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Abstract:
3 poems on meeting or loving the Beloved.

Journey of Broken Hearts

by Chris Jones Kavelin

2005
To love the One True Love,
to burn in the ardor of separation,
is to love every single creature true.
Every soul called into His embrace,
that hath received the adoring light His Face,
each carries a priceless token of His love.
Humbly we must prostrate ourselves
before the threshold of each others hearts,
yearning to receive, some sign of our Beloved
some new fragrance, a new song,
a new light, a new sacred story,
that breaks our heart afresh,
that sets a torch to our spirit,
that burns the veils of our separation,
that we may hold each other
in that place where joy embraceth sorrow,
and cry “Ya-Bahá’u'l-Abha!”
At last!
We have found again the Most Great Beauty!


Priceless Pearl

I am bone weary.
Tired of my insufficiency,
my feeling of incapacity,
awkward, fumbling gestures,
meant to please Thee.
And yet still I invoke Thee,
asking to let me please the beloved Guardian.
And if this is not love,
but some selfish reflection,
burn me up, tear asunder my veils,
give me cups of woe,
until I am worthy to even ask:
let me love him,
let me love him more,
let me be consumed,
with desire to give him one tear of joy.
Knowing that if I some day,
give him some atoms breath,
of happiness,
it will only be,
because You,
enabled me.
I love to beg this from Thee,
that I may demonstrate my poverty,
and Thy infinitely tender Generosity.


Heavenly Maiden

In prostration I pray to Thee,
tearfully, ardently, humbly,
unworthy, yet still I beseech:
“If the heavenly maiden should again descend,
to seek for hearts wherein loves flame
burns steadfast and pure for the Most Great Beauty,
let her not repair to Thy mansions
unfulfilled, bereft in loneliness and grief.
Let my heart be a rose,
an ornament of Thy love,
whose fragrance wafts to her
the chastity of my soul,
the purity of my heart,
the freedom of my spirit,
a broken-winged bird
in its painful, longing flight towards
The One True Love.
Let her ears not hear the clamor of silence,
but rather discern my pure prayer,
the tender song of a nightingale,
impaled upon the thorns,
of the very Rose,
which his song doth praise.
Let her this time return happy unto Thee
and gladden Thine own heart.”
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