I know the season of the waning moon
Light
going – fading day after day – but
It is short – and it waxes once more --
Why then do I yet entertain the pain of loss
When
precious things are taken from me
Or they come not as I think they ought
Or they come not as I think they ought
When reachings-out in writings fail
And
I am left alone -- yet again --
And
barrenness seems my only portion,
Will there never be any who applaud?
How
dumb then to let this pain hang around
When
I know, so very well, it is proof only
Of
my pride – proof of my base alloy –
Which
could be burned away in a moment!
And, it is! Will I not have acceptance with joy
And be simply glad for the privilege of loss?
I
know so well the “onwards and outwards”
The
turning – and facing away – from my own
Pleasure
– that is the way in – in to the Centre
To the Most Beautiful Garden of All within
Within the
pitch-dark-place of the holiest of all.
We
suffer more who know the way out of it.
*
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