Hymn To The Mountain

This clay is weak: come you divine Potter and knead it with your grace, pummel it and shape it and burn it in your oven so that it may be a true vessel for your magnificence. Let it be a fine pitcher to hold the waters of your mystery, to feed the thirsty soul lost in the desert of samsara, to bring Life to the very rock frozen in its mirage of death.

This canvas is blank: come you infinite Artist with the colours of your truth, with the brushes of spirit and silence; paint now your masterpiece! May the exquisite images of your secret art blow away the minds of all who witness your cunning craft, so that they may finally awake from the dream of a separate reality.

This reed is hollow: come you immortal Musician and cut holes in it to shape your flute, scrape it and polish it until it sounds like a perfect echo of you. Blow your magic breath, the touch of your lips a blessing beyond compare, the sweet torment of ecstasy in each liquid note dripping with your silence. Such music awakens the dead, drives lovers insane with joy, reverberates endlessly through the very marrow of existence.

This heart is empty: come you eternal Beloved and fill its infinite vastness with your Light, so naught else remains but you!
 Let me melt in that fire like wax in a flame, o you eater of illusion, you divine mountain , you utter and total fire-linga , Om Arunachala!