E P I L O G U E

He, the One, is the flaming torch,
He also is the tomb,
And He the candle set on the tomb,
But the delight of self-annihilation
Fails only to then circling moth.
Thou didst not learn from the nightingale
The secret of independence.
The imprisonment of the nightingale in the garden
Lasts only till it remembers its nest.
As long as I was singing sweetly,
Light filled the garden;
The garden disappeared in a flash.
I am a dust-heap,
Haunted by the fragrance of musk.
Caught up in the cares of the world,
I became a desert.
Do not ask for my boundaries,
They embrace both heaven and earth.
I myself I am the bell,’

Its music sleeps in my veins.
This is my silence
Will end when the caravan moves.
Create he means to expansion.
There are no more eddies and whirlpools
When once the waters area stilled.
The weeping of the melting candle
Does not solicit tear from the eye.
Learn, O heedless one,
That there is sovereign independence
In the melting of the heart.
As long as there is youth,
We are secure in joy and excitement:
Our house is but hired and tenanted.

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Source: THE SONGS OF ENLIGHTENMENT by
Swamay Rama Tirthaa.