The Burning of the Poems

In the mornings I wake up,

Head over to the mountains,

And with the fire of the rising sun,

I burn all my poems,

To embers and ashes.

In the mornings, in the mountains, in the sunrises,

I renounce all, relinquish all,

Free at last (ideally), I desire nothing save Thee.

I thirst, I burn for Thee, O Lord my God

I need nothing, but Thee.

What is air and what is water

When Thy eyes have turned to me, a lost wanderer

In this valley of tears.

The spilt breath of spoken words, and

The spilt ink of written words are

For Thee and for Thee only.

I do not know if this is poetry,

But it is for Thee.

What have I which is not Thine.

My heart explodes with a multitude of desires,

To do this, and do that,

To achieve this, and achieve that,

To scale Everest,

Conquer the world,

Be the first, the best, the greatest.

Be still, Thou whispereth unto my heart.

Thou hast redeemed me from my aching heart of insatiable desires.

Before I fade away to dust and ashes

Into the unrelenting hands of Father Time,

Who with death, levels all, both rich and poor, as equals,

Redeem me that I may transcend 

This worldly heart of mine,

And love Thee with every fibre of my being.

I thirst, I burn for Thee, O Lord my God