March 2008


The springtime of Lovers has come,

    that this dust bowl may become a garden;

    the proclamation of heaven has come,

    that the bird of the soul may rise in flight.

    The sea becomes full of pearls,

    the salt marsh becomes sweet as kauthar,

    the stone becomes a ruby from the mine,

    the body becomes wholly soul.

Jalaluddin Rumi

Little Flute

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail

vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. 


This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,

and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. 


At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in

joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. 


Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.

Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. 




Tagore - Gitanjali