Lost we are
wanderers in our own deserts
looking for footsteps to follow
not those black tracks
not those muddy bumps
not those bird scratchings
seeing the odd tree, the odd plant
the odd perfumed flower
but not the straight path
where the scent must be of roses
like drunken bees
sensing honey
but not finding
we circle and wind,
wind and circle
and sometimes fall
from dizziness
Who leads?
Who directs?
Who comforts?
Whose hand or robe can we catch hold of
and find our way home?
Not just Master but Servant too
Not just Servant but Master too -
Who?
Hovering in a realm all His own
‘Abdu’l-Bahá wears the starry crown
His robe touches earth
His hands link with those of the saints
and his head grazes the edges of divinity
And so many words
profound and wise
and so many stories
and so many images
He has left us
to follow
to try
to follow
to bend our wills our hearts our souls
to follow
March on
lovers of God
the way is open
Of all the stories
meant to instruct,
there is the one of
Lua, lioness of the Cause
who failed
O Master, she said, do you not know
The foul place you sent me to?
the Master Himself had been there
many times:
airless hovel
sour, sore-covered body
thin palette
the filth -
the extreme need of the man -
And how often He held soup to the thin lips,
washed the wracked face with
water that was as pure
as His heart
This story, a magnet
above others
Lua, the one who faltered
- as I have faltered–
Such squeamishness
In serving a needy servant!
The Master knew and so he sends us
forth, Lua, me, all whose hearts burn
to follow Him, into the pure white flame
of His refining fire.