I searched everywhere for love.
I knocked on every door
and turned over every stone.
But it was only until I returned home
that I found love
waiting for me.

You are my love
My source of joy
You are the joy
You are the love
Every chamber of your heart is like a flower, blooming and blooming
Spreading love with the wind of thoughts
I am floating in those divinely pure thoughts and feeling the happiness
When I am in deep love, I gain the power of love,
When I feel beloved, I feel divine happiness.

I spent all night
weaving a poem for you
to wear. You look so beautiful
when you wear my light.

Do the lovers know
that when they whisper these poems
they are commemorating our love?
Do they ever think of you and me
or only of themselves?
Do they know that I once found
a strand of your hair
and wore it around my neck
like a necklace?
That I kiss your hands
more than I kiss your lips?
Do they realise that our love
and their love
are drops in the universe’s ocean of love
and that without any of these drops,
the ocean would be
less?

You think that you’ve moved on.
That you’re happier
and now that you think about it –
you’re quite glad
that it didn’t work out
because you are free
and happy.
You’re so happy.
And it’s better this way.
“Here,
let me tell you my reasons,”
you say. “Let me explain
what I mean.”
After hours of telling
your neighbour and
the florist
and the girl on the bus,
you conclude:
“So, you see? I’m happier now.

His body would be crushed, but the words would still remain: You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased. The trajectory of Jesus’ life and (in a real sense) the fate of the world hung on those few words. They were not the words of a Father celebrating the good things His Son had done, because He hadn’t really done anything yet. Even though Jesus was perfect, it wasn’t His perfection that brought the Father such delight. It was His very existence.

1 2 3