There Is No Rest In This Sleep

There is no rest in this sleep,
yet a wanderer’s wish for freedom,
this longing for longing.
Not by fist defiant
nor mind defined
nor tongue held captive
is Your Glory known.
This longing for longing...

Beneath this pale dry sun,
beneath this crying moon,
I have sat far too long,
praying for the bolt to unlock
Your fire.

Cast off the past!
Thread-bare,
Your cloak of modesty.

You are here, Ancient One. You are here.
My voice cracks uttering Your Name,
not boy, not man,
only Your dream of imperfection.
Listen. Listen.
This song, long ago forgotten,
whose whispers bled through the seams,
tore through scars…

Pierce through my heart, as You must,
break these bones, as You must,
let me be crushed by the
weight of all space,
and let that dust
adorn Your naked feet.
What else can I give You?

Oh Mother Fire!
Upon this roaring pyre
our earth melts,
blood bleeds
and our pride sheds its ash.

Oh Mother Fire!
Burn through my core
until the pure sap sizzles into smoke.
Ash and smoke:
let them dance in Your hair, Mother.
What else can I offer?

Let me walk across the shards
of a million broken mirrors—
just to see a soul unhurt, untouched.
Unrepentant.
And Your Glory unrivaled, unraveled.
Even unbending Time
now bows low before You.

But these moments,
they will not dance
along the edge of Your sword.

Oh Mother of Flame!
Come out of Your hiding,
shining, blazing,
singing Your ancient song!
End this game.

Oh Darkest One,
You are here. You are here.
I beg You, Awake!...
Your laughter swallows my screams.
Your waking breaks my dream.

Ambikananda
Summer Solstice, 2012