Baba Poetry Page
Sweet Adoration © 2013
"All prayers ultimately initiate the soul into an ever deepening silence of sweet adoration;
and all formulae are dissolved and assimilated into the integral and direct appreciative perception of divine Truth"
(Beams from Meher Baba on the Spiritual Panorama, p. 75).
"O wandering wind of night / Raise my soul in angelic flight" (from an unpublished poem by the author).
Come Fly With Me
Don’t be afraid; take My hand.
Together we’ll fly over distant lands.
The heavens above, the seas below…
Past these all with Me you’ll go.
We’ll sail through the clouds and soar with the stars
To a place in the heart that’s near not far.
There you’ll long for Me all the time,
Knowing I am yours and you are Mine.
I will become Your very life,
My name the key to end all strife.
You will feel that I’m oh so near,
And nothing—nothing—will be more dear.
The wine of love will flow freely then,
And drunken bliss will be the state you’re in.
What could be more beautiful than this Love?
Not a heavenly rose nor a snow-white dove.
So do not tarry; do not wait.
Join Me now; it’s your good fate.
I want you with Me to forever be.
Oh please, oh please come fly with Me!
Shortcut to God
Do you want to jump the queue to God's lotus feet
And take your rightful place next to His holy seat?
Baba said one who asks for His love is the chosen one,
A candle that becomes illumined by God's radiant Sun.
So pray for His love like your life depends on it.
Something not lost may be found in a frantic fit.
Where are You, God? How I need You!
This dark night I won't make it through.
As the moon pulls the tide to its crest,
So I am thirsting for You without rest.
As the fish writhes for water in separation,
So I am crying out for You in desperation.
O my piyar, my jan, my heart, and my soul,
You are my only thought and my only Goal.
Stroke His name and let it rock You to and fro',
Calling out for Him with every breath's flow.
Snuggle, nuzzle, cuddle, and caress His Being.
His lovely form, the only object of your seeing.
While Baba sits on a bench throwing prasad,
The world becomes lost in the smile of God.
Once you see Him, so sweet and handsome,
Your heart begins to pay a lover's ransom.
Tears of pearls flow freely down Your cheeks
In this most painful game of hide and seek.
The mind slows and there is only Him
As you float in the breeze of His whim.
Please give us that higher love, my Lord,
That we might die by Your cruel sword.
Make us burn like the masts night and day.
Let their fervent longing become our way.
Turn our hearts into raging rivers of wine.
Let us sip from the chalice of love divine.
Eruch said (metaphorically) to beg, borrow, or steal,
To come to Meherabad not by the click of one's heels.
What more can we do to earn God's great grace
And to be forever held in His warm embrace?
Pray like the starving for food and the blind for sight
That we may one day merge into His Ocean of Light.
When "repeated sincere prayers" break karma's chain,
Love-blossoms fall in our hearts like soft summer rain.
The Lifetime of Lifetimes
Ours is the chance that the angels must envy.
To our Lord we can hear them say, “Send me. Send me.”
So much closer to Him are we growing in love.
A shower of grace is raining down from above.
Have we any idea of our great good luck?
What we need now is true and mighty pluck!
Do your best and play your part.
One’s life’s work is to clean the heart.
Remember Him night and day, all year round.
Fill your life with His name’s sweet sound.
Go to His Samadhi as much as you can.
Make it part of your future plan.
Serve His cause with your heart and soul.
Make His pleasure your only goal.
Win His love and draw His grace.
By His side take your place.
Baba said His manifestation will be the greatest:
When love’s fair beauty displays its best and latest.
A time like this comes along once in a trillion years.*
Now let us dispel all doubts and overcome all fears.
It is as if we are being shot of a cannon towards God,
Soaring into the heavens from this earthen sod.
The more work we do now the lighter we’ll be,
And surer to float on waves of purest ecstasy.
O what Baba bliss is in store for us all!
All we have to do is heed His call.
We’ll sip the wine of love divine,
Our souls bathed in a light sublime.
God will become our most joyous pastime,
So Mehera said this is the lifetime of lifetimes!
*"[O]nce in a trillion years" is an interpretation of Baba’s manifestation
based on the footnote on page 151 of the second edition of God Speaks.
An Ode to Bhauji
We salute the great work you’ve done and the race you’ve nearly won.
His eternal glory is reflected in the setting of your sun.
You played your John to Baba’s Jesus, your Hanuman to His Ram.
You are a slave-drop moving to the motion of His Ocean calm.
You once locked yourself in your room until the twenty-first day,
But you soon caught Baba’s damaan to escape maya’s play.
You sacrificed your body to mosquitoes while keeping watch of Him,
And His harassment of you became His prasad and favorite whim.
You were simple and sweet, “full of honey,”
For you wanted only His love and not the world’s money.
He fed you His fish and blew you kisses,
As you lived only to further His sacred wishes.
You work for Him until you can’t work anymore,
Showing us the path that leads to God’s door.
Baba said He loved you second to Mehera for your obedience.
May infinite bliss come to you, good sir, with swift expedience!
All praise is due unto you, Vir Singh,
Lion-hearted in your service to our Lord and King!
Most of the facts stated in the poem are taken from Growing Up with God, by Sheela Kalchuri Fenster and David Fenster, but regarding the line "Baba said He loved you second to Mehera for your obedience," Baba also stated, "In my love, first comes Mehera, and then Mani. Mehera is my Beloved."
You Are Perfection Personified
O Baba, You are perfection personified!
Your radiance makes the sun swoon
Into Your arms at close of day.
Your beauty makes the mountains weep
Rivers that long for the sea.
Your compassion makes the stone surrender
Itself as the dust under Your feet.
O Baba, every facet of Your life
Manifests Your divine glory!
Baba, Your perfect childhood
Makes children of us all, in awe of You.
It was full of the divine mischief
That was first hatched
By the mischievous chicken.
Your mother, Shireenmai, had her hands full.
(An octopus would have had
Its arms full with You.)
She struggled to keep a hold of You,
Tethering You with her sari,
As we, too, must struggle
To hold fast to Your daaman.
Once, she found You playing
With a cobra in Your crib!
What a perfect playmate:
Only it could match Your wiliness.
Then there was the time
You were seen in the street,
Stranded on an island of naiveté
In a sea of stampeding water buffalo.
A well-spring of relief rose in all
When You were found safe and sound,
Guarded by the haunches of
One holy, immovable cow.
Can we imagine what else You did
Behind Shireenmai’s back?
Tumble on top of the roof
Of Your Pumpkin House?
Juggle hot coals in the air?
Yet the five Perfect Masters,
Holding maya at bay,
Kept You out of harm’s way.
For You had yet to begin Your mission
Of awakening in our hearts
A most awesome love for God.
Soon You began to blossom
Into the flower of compassion
That we have come to know You as.
You kept the peace like the Prophet Muhammed,
Settling fights between your classmates
And turning your own foes into reverent friends.
Hafiz’s words were your early companions,
And at a tender age You experienced
The heavenly spheres that earthly poets glorify.
Once, for a fleeting moment, You
Knew Yourself to be the Buddha,
Who overcame all desires.
And as You later said, only You,
Young Merwan, could have filled the role
Of the perfect boy that You were to seek!
Even in youth, Your real state
Could not be hidden from our eyes;
Your Meher-ness and Baba-hood
Could not help but shine through.
Although you were veiled from Your perfection,
Your perfection could not be veiled from the world!
As the years of Your life passed happily by,
One extraordinary day found You
‘Cycling to college in Poona.
You were beckoned over by Babajan,
One of the five Perfect Masters,
An ancient emperoress who held
Continual court under her neem tree.
Her embrace electrified Your being,
Though it was only after several months
That she transferred enough of her charge
For You to become the Powerhouse.
She called You "Mera piarra beta,"
"My beloved son," and
As a true mother would,
She laid her loving lips
Upon Your youthful brow,
And bestowed on You the kiss of death
That slayed your ephemeral ego
And ushered You into Life Eternal.
O what a moment: when our Baba first experienced
The indescribable ecstasy of God Realization!
As You completed the circle of perfection,
Let our fingers now form that magic ring
In joyful celebration of Your grand exaltation!
Yet as high as You soared with Him
During those heady days of divine flight,
With gossamer wings
Raised on celestial winds
Stirred by His radiant light,
This is also as far as You fell
Back down to an earthly hell.
And it is as far Your head fell
With blow upon bloody blow
On the stone in Your room
Of Your Pumpkin House
During a nine-months’ span.
Crashing Your skull into this rock,
You were trying to relieve
The agony and torment of
Coming back down to this too-weary world.
For as the word “Avatar” means
In Sanskrit, “He crosses down,”
You must descend to the depths
Of our despair from Your throne on high.
Yet Your descent was not complete:
There was more work to be done
With the remaining Perfect Masters
Before You could assume the full majesty
Of Your mantle, Highest of the High.
As we are drawn to the beauty of the night,
So were You drawn to Your next master,
Narayan Maharaj, the perfect prince of Kedgaon.
From his darbar You went to Tajuddin Baba,
Who was so marvelously mad for God
That he was committed to an asylum.
(Should we all be so lucky someday.)
Your penultimate master was Sai Baba,
The Qutub-e-Irshad or spiritual hierarchy’s head.
He proclaimed You to be “Parvardigar,”
For You do verily preserve and protect us all.
As Babajan gave You infinite bliss,
So did Sai Baba give You infinite power.
Your last term as a Master’s apprentice
Was served With Upasni Maharaj, the “King of the Yogis.”
He threw at You a stone, the grossest of objects,
Which hit Your forehead with cosmic force,
Revealing to You Dnyan or Infinite Knowledge.
But it would take seven long years
Of active struggle with Maharaj
Before You could maintain the state
Of being both man and God.
It was then and only then
That the angels’ chorus could sing:
The God-Man’s advent has begun;
Come and rejoice under His bright sun!
Draw near to His life’s royal stage;
All hail the Avatar of the Age!
Many had already surrendered themselves to You,
As Your circle assembled around its Center.
School chums and new ones,
They made up Your mandali,
Luminaries whose service and devotion to You
Will forever light the Path of Love.
They thronged to Your hut at Kasba Peth,
And later to Your father’s toddy shop,
Which stood on the threshold of
Your own inner wine shop, o Saki.
You took Your men on many a tour,
As spiritual wayfarers they were for sure:
To Persia, Quetta, and Karachi You went.
Like a general marshaling his mighty forces,
You marched Your men from Poona to Bombay.
Brave holy warriors, they were engaged in
The greater jihad, which is waged in
The heart against one’s own lower self.
At Bombay, You established Manzil-e-Meem,
House of the Master, the training ground used
To instill the strict spiritual discipline
Needed to defeat the “hydra-headed ego.”
There fire flashed in the eyes
Of a strong, young Lion whose mere touch
Could move aside the largest man.
Nevertheless, You would always apply
A soothing balm of sweet words
And looks on every wounded ego,
Thus shortening the pendulum’s swing
Between duality’s polar opposites.
New rules were posted regularly
In the early, formative years of Your ashram,
Including ones that said Your men
Had to wake at four and follow this
With a cold bath and an hour’s repetition
Of one of God’s hallowed names.
Among the things You prohibited
Were eating meat and eggs, touching women,
Reading and writing material outside the ashram,
And acknowledging past acquaintances.
In this furnace known as Manzil-e-Meem,
Your men passed through the fire
Of a most stringent discipleship.
Yet at the same time, these flames were
Fanned by the bellows of Your aspirants’ effort and
Tempered by the promise of Your masterful praise.
This furnace forged Your men into
Shining swords of adamantine obedience,
Which You would use to slash through
Maya’s woven web of pain and pleasure,
Transforming them through spiritual alchemy
Into the instruments of their own salvation!
Once when You were in Ahmednagar,
You walked with Your usual sprightly steps
Down a deserted country road,
Only to stop suddenly under a neem tree.
At this place, merged time and space,
As You marked the future spot of
Hearth and home and work and rest.
You named this spot Meherabad, and here
Compassion flourished as almost nowhere else.
You were an ideal exemplar of the selfless servant,
As You established a free hospital and dispensary,
An ashram for lepers, whom You bathed
Until they were free of the stains from our ignorance,
And an ashram for the poor, whom You clothed and fed
Until they could forget our cold indifference.
Always on the go, You cleaned latrines and engaged
In Your mandali’s work yoga of grinding grain.
Among Your other endeavors at Meherabad,
You opened a free school for boys
Who were taught the ways of the world,
As well as the ways of the spirit,
Including the three R’s of Zoroaster:
Right thoughts, right words, and right deeds.
Some took to You like a long-lost lover,
Rising at midnight to remember You.
You were to move these tender buds
Into the nursery of the Prem Ashram.
Basking in the rays of Your glory,
Watered by their own sobs and throbs,
Soon these seedlings sprouted into
Fledgling masters or chota (little) Babas.
Now let us hope and pray
That we all find one day
Their courage and strength to dare
To soar on the wings of Meher.
As you completed much of your Universal Work,
The understanding of which lies far beyond our ken,
Your servitude showed the way to mastery,
Giving spiritual and material aid to so many
At Meherabad, the model community for the New Humanity!
O blessed Avatar Meher Baba,
Our loving mother and compassionate father,
You would often gather ‘round Your children,
As the shepherd Jesus would His flock,
And enfold them in Your oceanic embrace
And enthrall them with Your resplendent smile.
If the scenes surrounding these love-gifts given
Between generous master and grateful disciple
Had all been captured in photographs,
Those pictures could fill every known album!
To expedite things, here are some highlights
Of those storied and mostly silent exchanges of love.
Once at a beach in Bombay, You came upon a man
Whose wife had run away with his best friend.
Drowning in maya, his dream a nightmare,
He was to end his days in the water’s cool waves.
Yet Your nazar sees all, so You can let none fall.
As only God could love, You
Came up to him and buoyed his spirits
With hopeful words and a warm smile.
This man, Chanji, later became one of
The faithful few who served You so well.
Similarly, You raised Krishna Nair up
From the dregs of life’s cup
To make Him Your very own.
About to throw his life away over a cliff in Bombay,
Your image appeared to Him
In an angelic vision, and he soon came to You.
Then there was the time You told Eruch
To find a person in desperate need
And give him a bundle of rupees.
When such a one was found and given the money,
He said, “Had you come tomorrow, I would
Not have been here. I planned to kill myself today.”
O Baba, who can fathom the depths of Your mercy?
Who can find the lustrous Pearl hidden there?
None but the lover who dives deep within.
Later, after Your first trip
To lay Your cables in the West,
You said You had most enjoyed
Visiting a home for the aged and ailing.
You went to lead Your devotees onto real darshan,
Yet You stayed to give solace
To those souls who needed it most.
At the end of Your second Western trip,
Your tears touched Kimco’s letters
As You pined for their company,
And Your love-song echoed amongst their hearts.
But all was not rosy in the heart’s secret garden:
Much to Mehera’s dismay,
Colonel Irani was the main purveyor
Of a swarthy stew of opposition.
Vigorously stirring a cauldron of lies,
He caused some to doubt Your divinity.
Yet You ate this stew as if it were sweetmeat,
Going so far as to say Colonel Irani’s name
Should be placed on the monument
Dedicated to Your lovers’ memory.
When asked why this should be so,
With a wink and a nod to the play of God
You said, “He always thought of Me.”
Then there is the case of K.J. Dastur.
Though by no means a dastard,
He was once beheld Your splendor,
But then began to rail against You.
Rather than condemn his wayward ways,
Incredibly You gave him money to help him
Sail through his dire straits.
As happened to fun-loving Krishna,
Arrows of insult were shot at You,
And yet You returned them not in kind
But with arrows of kindness and caring.
For You said that opposition against You
Only increased the tension of the bow
Whence Your life’s work shot forth.
Now who can forget that
Dream-like night in Portofino?
Surrounded by Your close ones
While looking regal in a royal blue coat,
You were serenaded by the light of the moon,
Which was heard to lovingly croon,
I shine but to spread the light of Your name.”
May we sing to You tonight
And every night, echoing the moonlight.
As some of Your lovers were here and some there,
Like a slave You were inwardly summoned
Around the world many times over.
Yet in the end isn’t it true,
That East is East and West is West?
Perhaps that is the common thought
But not when the two came together as one
At Your epic East-West Gathering.
Neither caste nor creed nor color of skin
Nor birthplace nor purse-size nor worldly din,
Could keep Your lovers from expressing
The underlying unity of all humanity.
Your love-glance fell on them like summer rain,
While You swept Your arms to Your chest,
Bringing upon Yourself the burdens
Laid down at Your lotus feet.
You said You opened a window in Your heart;
Well I say to us, "Hold up the sash
And enjoy the magnificent view!"
One last episode of Love’s delight
Is when Krishna Mast met You on the road.
Like a babe and mother racing to each other,
Together you flew, and together you fell,
Rolling wildly in the dust,
As a twister on the plain...
Loving madly Your light,
As a moth does the flame...
Longing deeply for union,
As a thief out for gain...
Together you showed us
What pleasure lies in love’s pain.
All of these moments are jewels
In the crown of Your Godhood,
Petals in the rose of Your Love—
A flower whose fragrance wafts
Gently o’er our slumbering souls
In waves of wondrous rapture!
O Baba, Your infinite, heart-mending love for us
Led to Your infinite, heart-rending suffering for us.
No one in the entire universe
Suffers like You, Beloved Baba,
And therein lies Your greatness, You said,
As You suffer for the sake of love.
Since You possess Universal Mind,
You bear the weight of every mind’s suffering.
At times, Your lovers begged to share in
Your suffering to relieve You of Your pain.
Hoping it’s not too late, we wish the same.
For if Your pleasure is our comfort,
Then Your suffering is our defeat.
Although we can live according to Your wish,
And thereby lighten Your infinite load,
The pain You felt while in the body
Was horribly real and irreversible.
Your two catastrophic car accidents
Shattered first the left side
And then the right of Your fair frame.
In America, You broke Your arm in two places,
Your leg, your nose, and had your gums punctured.
In India, You broke Your pelvis, Your leg,
And severed the skin of Your tongue.
What more can our God do for us,
We who are not worthy of Him?
Yet there was so much more
That You did endure for us.
Your heroic fasts were first for Your circle,
And then for us, to slow the slithering of lust
In our lives and to end our anger eruptions,
As well as to show us how to do so for ourselves.
Cumulatively, the length of Your fasts
Tallies year upon brutal year.
The longest lasted over five and half months:
Done on a flask-full (minus one-half)
Of coffee per day in Your crypt,
It helped to sanctify the site of your Samadhi
As the seat of Your omnipotent power
For the next seven hundred or more years.
Your mast tours were equally exhausting:
You seemed to travel well over a million miles
Under the scorching sun and through flooded fields,
With little or no time for rest or relaxation.
All this so that You could contact
Your child-like masts, with their must-have love,
In order to clean these prisms of the planes
Who illumine our world
With God’s grace-full rainbow.
Now what can one say in the wake of
Your near forty-four years of golden silence?
The mouth tries to speak, but the tongue is still.
All words are naught; all thought is nil.
The mind sleeps while the heart sings
A glorious song of remembrance.
Yet in this gross world of ours
You neither spoke, nor sang, nor laughed out loud,
For the eternity of nigh half a century.
Your silence, which prepared the way for
Your Word, is the very meaning of sacrifice,
As is Your entire benevolent life.
You also suffered a litany of ills
Not to be wished on Maya itself:
Loosened teeth from hammering
Your head at Pumpkin House,
Fistula (Your Avataric ailment), diabetes,
Dysentery, conjunctivitis, piles, mumps,
Ulcers, arthritis, painfully-sensitive sinuses,
Eyelids which scratched Your eyes,
Severe headaches, chronic back
And neck pain, and ultimately spasms
That shook You on Your bed
As if “turning every bone to powder.”
Baba, why oh why must You suffer so?
Need our Lord be laid this low?
Only knowing that it is by Your will
Can help us swallow this most bitter pill.
You become bound so that we may be free.
How can we give right thanks to thee?
By loving You as You should be loved,
Your pain gives birth to a sacred dove.
Flying ever onward towards the goal
‘Till it finds You as its very soul.
For You are truth and You are light,
Guiding us through our darkest night.
As suffering sows the seeds of new life,
Out of Your infinite suffering for us
Sprang a self-transcending, never-ending New Life.
In this life, You expressed a perfect humility
Which will continually inspire us to surrender
Our false selves in order to realize our real Self.
Like a fearless tiger You lept into the faqir’s life,
Relinquishing almost all worldly holdings
And severing almost all external ties,
Thereby breathing much-needed life
Into the renunciate’s mantra of Neti-Neti.
For with no possessions, no home, and no hope,
What is left but your life-giving grace?
Reminiscent of the ancient times of Ram,
You wandered in India in self-imposed exile
With a select few while begging for alms
By asking people to “premsay bhiksha dijye.”
(With love, give your offering.)
This was no trek for the faint of heart,
As you walked ten to fifteen miles a day,
From dawn (or earlier) till dusk.
Kaka Baria had a heart attack, and Dr. Ghani
Collapsed from the heat of the day.
Yet the beauty of the Song of the New Life—
A welcoming of helplessness and hopelessness—
Is the siren song that causes us
To crush our egos upon the rocky shoreline
Of Your beautiful, boundless Ocean.
For once we are determined to be Yours,
All that makes us hopeless and helpless
Can also prepare us to receive
The soft caress of Your tears on our cheeks.
Always appearing cheerful and never expressing
Anger and cruelty were tenets of the New Life.
Once, after You asked Eruch to put out
A loud baby bird into the cold, dark night.
Repenting for Your mistake, You had Your
Companions scold You by spitting on You
And hitting You with their sandals.
To those who traveled with You,
You were neither God nor Master:
You were a companion whose company
Was all they wanted of this world.
As You said it is our duty to
Make You our constant companion,
Our dharma was their karma,
Won through lifetimes of longing.
For then, as now, and ever after,
Your presence is love’s essence.
Another goal of the New Life was to
Give aid and succor to the poor.
After distributing money to those
Stricken by famine in Calcutta,
You came to a hut of a family
That Eruch had heard was in desperate need.
It was Diwali, the festival of lights,
Yet in this hut there burned no lamp.
The hut was empty save a large statue of Krishna.
A woman answered the door,
Her sickly parents on the floor.
You quickly bowed to them, washed their feet,
And left a large sum of money.
The woman wailed as she threw herself
At the feet of Krishna’s statue:
“O Lord, can You be so compassionate?
Can You send help within minutes
Of my praying to Your statue?”
That night this hut lay not in darkness,
As one heart was set aglow with the light of Your love.
In Sarnath, You came upon a humble gardener
Who had everything in wanting nothing.
He slept out in the cold, rose at four to wash
With well water, and ate only rice with salt,
Sustained by singing the love-song of Your name.
You wanted to give him a gift, but
All he would ask for was a matchbox.
Finally, he took a warm blanket from You, incognito,
Saying, “It is a gift from Bhagwan [God].”
And so it was, and so it was.
“Thakurji [Krishna] gives me everything,” he added.
And so He does, and so He does.
The spirit of the New Life lived in this gardener
Who had the faith of child that knows
His father will take great good care of him.
Later, You went to the Kumbh Mela,
A flood-gathering of spiritual aspirants
That flows back into the sacred river Ganges.
There You bowed down to ten thousand aspirants,
To some three thousand in one day alone!
In these acts of extreme obeisance,
You sacrificed Your body by
Lowering Yourself time and again
To honor the love of Your lovers.
All of these trials and tribulations
Were grindstones in the mill of the New Life,
Grounding the self down to dust,
Weakening the mind so that it could be
Utterly annihilated in Manonash.
You pioneered a simple yet strenuous path
For the ego-less life in these modern times.
O Baba, help us to rely on You and You alone
As we follow in the footsteps of Your perfect humility!
Dear, sweet Baba, we now ardently await
Your Universal Manifestation.
You said it will be the greatest
Of all the Avatars of ages past,
For never have such secrets been revealed
As You have revealed in Your scriptures,
And never have You told the masses so clearly
That You and we mortals too
Are in truth immortal and ineffable God.
But we are still young in Your love,
And so some questions might arise:
Has your lovely voice been heard
Speaking the Word to end all words?
Will Your love provide the leaven
To raise us to an earthly heaven?
Has Your Manifestation been; will it be; is it now?
Help! I’m caught in the mind’s wherefore and where-how!
Surely, there is no need to wonder:
Your love is rolling like silent thunder.
During Your supreme manifestation
The chalice of the heart shall overflow
With the sweetest wine there ever was.
A sip of Your love-wine
Brings on blissful oblivion,
For it washes away our troubles
As the ocean waves smooth the sand.
Making Your name our very breath,
Faithfully saying Your sacred prayers,
Visiting places where You have been,
And selflessly serving You in other people
Are part of the process by which Baba
Distills a wine of rarest vintage.
So let Him make wine, make wine I say,
And let us drink deeply of its bliss!
Once this wine passes your lips
You will know that it is truly
The most precious gift in all the universe.
This love-wine will cause all to speak
The words we are destined to speak:
O what love sublime! O what love divine!
To melt in the fire of that fervent desire…
To enter Your abode of infinite light…
Ah, to be with You once more “under the stars…”
O Baba, our lives’ quest will not be in vain!
We will reunite with You
As You manifest most perfectly
In the hearts of Your lovers!
O Meher, Meher,
Rest well in God’s lair.
Until You come again,
May Your life make us long
For that love which You are—
A love so beautiful, pure, and true,
It makes our hearts cry out to You:
O Baba, You are Perfection Personified!