Reflections of Passion

Reflections of Passion

Reflections of Passion

Countless are the living strings of the silences that hide Love's yearnings,
Yet allow my flute to claim the sacred tones of your inner harp,
For the flute-player is drunk with the passion that necessitates his home-coming,
And allow the passion within his passion, and the serenade within his serenade, to moisten your soul with infinite tenderness.

Passion is the blossoming of your desires when you yield to the sweetness of life's honey.
It is a dignified depth calling unto a majestic height.
It is life's own quivering hands.
It is Love's winged Messenger that gathers all things of dust and fire unto her bosom.

Passion is that which moves the still night with dreams without offending her solitude.
It is the nectar hidden in every pleasure, not a burden unto your breath.
It is the ecstasy in your seeking and finding.
It is the beauty that speaks the depths of being and the heights of becoming.

Passion is the Mother unto all your silences and tides, your joys and sorrows.
It is the vessel capable of all forms and is itself a nakedness unto all.
It is that which suspends nothing in itself for it bears not masked faces nor caged songbirds.
It is the everspringing hope in the winter of your soul's grief, a swirling harmony in the songless sky, and a mighty dawn unto the faceless night.

In passion, take with you the wingless and the breathless,
For nothing of wonder shall descend with the morning mist and rain unless all riddles are solved in passion, and unless all songs are sung in its heart.

Even as the spring flower is the temple for beauty and fragrance,
So is your heart the temple for passion where God beholds Himself as Love.

Even as the lightning precedes the thunder,
So does passion precede your breathing.

Even as the cup holds the wine,
So does your soul hold the intoxicating myrrh made of the morning light and the silhouette.

They say, "Ay, too often is passion something of bewildering madness and uncertainty."

But I say unto you, "Unless you caress the wind with its own essence, which is in yourself, and unless you recognize the taste of honey by quenching the thirst of your own soul, you shall never know what passion is, for it is not a distant haze, but the mist that dances in God's solitude simply because you exist."

Pity the butterfly that knows not the language of the wind's swiftness nor the beauty of its own fragility.

Pity the lover that knows not his Beloved except only in the name that pricks his tongue and crucifies his understanding.

Pity the purposeless evening wind that knows not its destination in the traceless silence of space.

Pity the weak heart that places the blessed words of the Prophet upon a staggering tongue.

But I say unto you, "In passion's own longing is the breath that knows itself, the eye that sees itself, the waves that know their shores, and the beauty that houses itself."

Love,

Dani