My soul holds many secrets.
I went on a journey to the next world
and have seen:
myriad gifts of spirit,
Lightscapes being birthed,
spectrums of lovelight unseen,
Loves infinite forms
dancing, recreating, flying,
the Beauty of my Most Beloved,
reflected in all and
Yet all, untranslatable,
save as awkward gestures
of my form in this world:
The barking of a dog singing Mozart and Shakespeare.
But now I have returned.
Yet I cannot live in this world nor the next,
rather I live in that in-between place
that commands that I am attached to neither.
I live in the pure fire that is the middle space
where joy and sorrow tearfully embrace.
My medium, my breath, my drink
are those fused tears of flame.
Now I live free of both hatred and love,
I turn aside from the offered cup of ambrosial wine,
that I thought was my happiness and joy,
and swallow broken glass instead,
submitting to the Will of my Ultimate Beloved...
Yet wondrously finding
the final miracle of Gorecki
is that the wine is the glass
and the glass is the wine.