“If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst forth at once in the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One.” — The Bhagavad Gita
You tell me
love is an abyss,
to fly toward its sun
is a doomed ascent;
Icarus tumbling,
life undone
by the heart and
its fumbling
will.
You forget
we have lived
a thousand lives,
and you forget
we have flown
as stars in each one.
Listen (then listen
again) to your heart’s
burning wisdom,
the incandescence
born of the wheel’s
turning:
we may have died
a thousand deaths,
but (remember,
remember) we
hold a thousand
brilliant
suns.