Blissful Yearning

From the West-Eastern Divan

Tell it no one but the wise, The crowd will only jeer: The living thing I praise, That longs for death by fire. Cooling, in those nights of love, Conceiving as you were conceived, A strange emotion fills you While the quiet candle gleams. You’re no longer in the grasp Of shadows, darkening, A new desire lifts you up On to a higher mating. No distances can weigh you down, Enchanted you come flying, And greedy for the light, at last, A moth, you burn in dying. And as long as you lack this True word: Die and Become! You’ll be but a dismal guest In Earth’s darkened room.