stranded in paradise

the smell of a rose and
the murmur of the river
and springtime gently
wakes a weary world

drops of dew and
stars shining bright,
the song of nightingales
calling my Beloved

my Love, my Lord
so far away and yet
i feel Your presence
like a loved one gone
to distant lands
i hear Your voice

by this isle, by this garden
the river’s waters flow
but i am lost from having drunk
the wine of knowing Thee

my Beloved, my Desire
such sorrows You faced,
the trials and agonies,
and now, to see You leave,
my heart is rent asunder,
and my soul howls and laments.

a mound of roses,
ever growing at Your feet,
implore You to stay
but God has willed otherwise.

my face turned towards You,
i offer thanks and praise
and at the river’s edge
the tears roll down

may 2, 2005:
12th day of Ridván

2 thoughts on “stranded in paradise

  1. Dear Baha’i Friend,
    Saw your poem, loved it, and was urged to send you a Ridvan poem written some years ago. Here it is.
    Share it with friends and family.
    Tony Jones

    On this Day,
    He comes wrapped in a Robe of Light,
    Walking, walking.
    Luminous majesty, Wronged One of the World,
    Moving across creation,
    Floating, floating.
    His high felt taj, a banner shown to all,
    His very Presence, a flag unfurled,
    The rains come and wash away the dirt.
    The river fills and, oh,
    It fills so deep, so deep.
    Across the way, nightingales so loud,
    We cannot sleep.
    And His chanting all the while
    Pacing, pacing,
    Causing us to shake.
    Among the roses we sit entranced,
    We clutch ourselves:
    Our hearts are racing, racing.
    We pray to God they will not break.

    Ridvan opens the door, our souls enter,
    Plunged in all mercy,
    All Things are changed, changed.
    Once done and for all time,
    All shine like a thousand suns,
    All dust into diamonds,
    All atoms of us all are re-arranged.
    All atoms of us all are re-arranged.

    He speaks a language of wonder and might
    And that’s all that’s heard.
    A mysterious accent upon His tongue.
    A breath of heaven, heaven.
    We hear it again and all else is blurred.
    Of Job was never more sweeter sung,
    A breath of heaven, heaven.

    We stand in awe as He approaches on horseback,
    We realize His leaving , leaving.
    Clinging to His hem,
    Tears fill the eyes.
    We bow and beg.
    Clouds of sorrow well,
    Grieving, grieving.
    The throng moves to and fro
    In a tremendous gasp.
    The Ancient Beauty is held but for a moment
    In its fragile clasp,
    Then released.
    The soldier’s drum beats
    And we wonder upon
    The Days of Ridvan.
    Thanks for reading.

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