Selfhood is an ocean boundless, fathomless,
Thou shouldst not think it is a narrow rivulet.
This ancient sky is a dome of many—coloured glass,
An edifice fragile, waiting to be demolished.
One gets submerged in Selfhood and surges again,
If one has the will to face the tide in the dark.
What do astrologers know about thy fate?
Living dust thou art, not a slave of the stars.
Thy paradise and nymphs and Gabriel
Are all on earth, if thou hast a bold vision.
Nature is bountiful, but miserly in its gifts,
It gives the ruby fire, but gives it no flame.