MAHARAAJ

I touch God in
my song
    as the hill
touches the
far-away sea
      with its
waterfall.
The butterfly
counts not
months but
moments,
    and has
time enough.
When the
voice of the
Silent
touches my
words
I know him
and
therefore
know myself.
If you would have it so,
I will end my singing.
If it sets your heart
aflutter,
I will take away my
eyes from your face.

If it suddenly startles
you in your walk,
I will step aside and
take another path.

If it confuses you in
your flower-weaving,
I will shun your
lonely garden.

If it makes the water

wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat
by your bank.
The song of mine will touch
your forehead
like a kiss of blessing.

When you are alone it will

sit by your side and
whisper in your ear,
when you are in the
crowd
it will fence you about
with aloofness.

My song will be like a pair

of wings to your dreams,
it will transport your
heart to the verge of the
unknown.

It will be like the faithful

star overhead
when dark night is over
your road.
I have loved the sunlight, the
sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid
murmur of the river
through the darkness of
midnight;
Autumn sunsets have
come to me at the bend of
the road
in the lonely waste, like a
bride raising her veil
to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still
sweet with the first white
jasmines
that I held in my hands
when I was a child.

Many a glad day has come in

my life,
and I have laughed with
merrymakers on festival
nights....
Yet my heart is sweet with
the memory of the first
fresh jasmines
By all means they try to
hold me secure who
love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with
thy love which is
greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me
free.
Lest I forget them they
never venture to leave
me alone.
But day passes by after
day and thou art not
seen.
If I call not thee in my
prayers, if I keep not
thee in my heart,
thy love for me still
waits for my love.
Art thou abroad on this stormy night
on thy journey of love, my friend?
The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep tonight.
Ever and again I open my door and look out
on
the darkness, my friend!
I can see nothing before me.
I wonder where lies thy path!
By what dim shore of the ink-black river,
by what far edge of the frowning forest,
through what mazy depth of gloom art thou
threading
thy course to come to me, my friend?

EINSTEIN