Like the dawn chorus of many carolling birds,
Man's a restless creature made up of many words,
This mountain stream of thought's not a blessing but a bane;
Clouds the Sun of Selfhood and leaves him sad in shame.
In order to fly up to a higher plane of Being,
He must cultivate the art of inward seeing;
With attention, yearn to find the source of I,
Which spills a verbal torrent made of 'me' and 'my'.
Questioning 'Who Am I' silences tyrant mind,
And instead of bubbling burble we soon will find
A flood of joy and bliss stemming from one's heart,
Full of Grace and Love and ever ready to impart
An evocation of the Self to his fellow man,
Which only the Self Realised really truly can;
Such is divine stillness and mystical power
Which great silent mind brings into perfect flower.
So we turn attention inward with all of our might,
Deeply diving down to source and experience God's Light.
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