What is it in us that responds with unutterable yearning, grief and unspeakable joy all at once when we hear a certain passage of music or see some glorious manifestation of the universal consciousness in the intricate patterns of nature?
What is it in the tentative, reaching radiance of the rising sun as it gradually limns the tree trunks,  drawing them out from the darkling twilight of predawn and coaxing the ethereal mist from the frosted ground, that shocks the train of thought to silence?  
That derails our mundane morning routine and sweeps our emotions to the highest pinnacle of exultation in an ******* awareness of the beauty in front of us?    
Is it not a flash of recognition of something familiar from aeons past -  a trembling-on-the-edge memory that we just can't pin down?  
What is the force orchestrating this miracle moment frozen in time, that seems both fleeting and ever present at once?   
Breathless, we glimpse glory and instinctively feel connected - woven into it. 
In a blinding flash of certainty we realise, in this trembling thrall of emotions, we are experiencing the divine essence of our existence.





P.S.
"Yeah, yeah - it's pretty.  Now hurry up and get your coat, I'm running late for work!"

An eye awoke; the cosmos caught aflame,
Glowing stars gathered—each none quite the same.
Her eyes, like sparks, called him by tender names,
And in that gaze, the night shed all its claims.

The moon chased from every direction,
Lost in orbit of her sweet affection.
No silver light could dare compete,
With the fire that made his heart complete.

O’ Jamil! Arise, arise! The dawn awaits your flame,
Not as a flicker, faint and frail, but a sun none can tame.
Yet haste is the foe of wisdom, the traitor of the soul,
For destinies are not cast in haste, but forged in measured coal.
The mountains bow to none but those who climb with patient feet,
The ocean’s depth is not revealed by waves that blindly beat.
The pen that writes eternal tales moves with a sovereign will,
O’ Jamil, become part of the story, and be written slowly still.

Not by the fleeting breath of time, nor by the tempest’s roar,
But by the silent hand that shapes the clay to something more.
The rose that claims its bloom at once is robbed of sacred pride,
The sun ascends the eastern sky, but only with the tide.

In every heart the latent spark awaits the perfect hour,
To blaze a path through endless night with majesty and power.
But power without patience is but ash upon the breeze —
O’ Jamil! Be steadfast, walk with grace, and bend your will with ease.

Yet know — the flame that softly glows may set the world ablaze,
The gentle seed that falls in soil can birth eternal days.
No storm nor lightning need you chase; within, a sun resides,
A fearless light, a boundless charm, the Self that never hides.

So sing! Sing loud, O’ beautiful, with courage and delight —
Each step a dance upon the stars, each breath a burning light.
Write not in haste, but with a smile, the story you fulfil —
O’ Jamil, become part of the story, and be written slowly still.

A shadow slipped through the silence of my soul — the memory of a thief who once stole more than gold.

When clouds chase my thoughts through the corridors of day,
My soul seeks its truth in the sun’s burning ray.

They murmur of realms where the veils are undone,
Where shadows are born from a brighter display.

Each drop is a flame in a robe of disguise,
That falls from the sky like a tear in delay.

I searched for still air, but the winds would not cease—
The tempest instructs in its own sovereign way.

The Self must arise where the silence is loud,
Where gold is not found but revealed through decay.

So let them pursue me, these clouds trimmed in fire,
Their chase is a summons I dare not betray.

O’ seeker, who wanders beneath the sun’s eye,
The blaze is your trial—be forged, not afraid.

To gaze upon thy radiant face — a glimpse of heaven’s lore,
The veil is drawn, the soul is torn — what lies behind that door?

Thy silence speaks in thunderous tones, a storm behind thy grace,
Each glance of thine unveils a world no mortal dared explore.

The dust that clings beneath thy feet — to me, it’s sacred ground,
I would trade the thrones of emperors to watch thy shadow soar.

The night may boast a thousand stars — they pale before thy flame,
The moon itself forgets to shine when thou dost heaven outpour.

In dreams I walk through burning winds, yet seek thee without fear,
For every wound becomes a rose when love’s the pain I bore.

O’ heart, retreat from fleeting things — thy cure is not of earth,
His smile contains the cure, the fire, the storm, the shore.

– The lover, still I carve thy name in verses none ignore,
For even Time shall bow its head where love and truth restore.

We are connected not by fate or chain,
But by the fire that runs through joy and pain.

When I dissolve, thy breath shall still remain,
Calling my name in air, in mist, in rain—

And from that breath, the world shall rise anew:
A flame from ashes, and the skies from dew.