“My life is but an instant, an hour that passes by; To love you, my dearest God, I only have today.”
– St. Therese of Lisieux
“He who sells his next life for his present life in this world loses them both.”
– Imam Ali ibn abi Talib
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A little flower
And a warrior sage,
Both counting life as an hour,
A rose dropping its petals,
Sand slipping through glass,
A breath half-taken,
A song half-sung.
Two different souls,
Spanning the chasm of time,
Bridging the gap of civilizations,
Yet in this instant
They speak of the instant
Which is our mortal span.
They are one in remembering the One,
Beckoning us across the ages,
Waking us from our indifference,
Like stars set above the sea
Or the depths of the desert.
This ship is not our home,
Nor this caravan our camp.
We are ever-journeying,
Sent forth to return.
Hear, then, O Lovers,
Practicing Poets and Patient Pilgrims:
Count yourself not as your own!
Be like the child or the madman,
And you will recall your true name.
Die before you die,
Like the leaf that changes color,
Then falls to the forest floor,
And you will rise like the sun!
Autumn is upon us
And nature cries, “Take heed!”
Decay is creeping steadily,
Time fades into eternity,
So we must make our dwelling there.
Do not sell yourself cheap
Gaining this world, and losing all worlds.
The Beloved lies in His chamber
And bids the Bride to enter.
Light the festive lamps
And cast yourself into the flame!
Make love until you are spent;
Do not calculate the cost.
Pluck the rose with all its thorns;
Give fragrance to the crushing hand.
If you knew the mercy that was here,
You would never cease prostrating.
If you knew the grace that was here,
You would become Love.