I am the blush of the morning,
and I am the evening breeze;
I am the leaf’s low murmur,
the swell of the terrible seas.
The lover’s passionate pleading,
the maiden’s whispered fears;
The warrior, the blade that strikes him,
his mother’s heart wrung fear.
The rose, her poet nightingale,
the songs from the throat that rise,
The flint, the sparks, the taper,
the moth that about it flies.
I am intoxication, grapes,
wine press and musk, and wine,
The guest, the host, the traveler,
the goblet of crystal fine.
Oh! The splendor and glory of your Self makes the pomp of emperors ridiculous.
Such a wondrous Heaven you are, Existence, Knowledge and Bliss you are.
Om! Om!! Om!!!
