GOD’S OWN BEAUTY
The purity lives in each common thing:
In mango stains, in bills left unpaid,
In thunder splitting night, in a child’s smile.
Nothing here was ever made permanent
To in-house a smaller or a bigger God
Yet we tighten our pillars of belief
The sky to fit our fear, build ceilinged doubt
Where horizons ran into emptiness and void
We name it strict, faith as foundation
And call the river wrong for spilling out.
So I will look today in both extremes—
In joy’s bright apple, wine-drop melody,
And in the ache that tears apart our dreams.
If God is all, then all is sanctuary.
BETWEEN THE LINES
Blue Sky had been watching a long time. He did not blink. Below him, Woman stood in a body that had forgotten it was holy. Then she moved. Consciousness does not think itself into being. It feels itself into form.
This world is the slow, aching, luminous stretch of the Creator’s body. Dancers flicker in and out like fireflies against night, but the dance — the dance remains.
Warm. Living. Hungry for more of itself. Many times, when her body gave itself to movement, something holy brushed the nape of her neck. Not a touch. A remembering.
In those moments, her ribs opened. Her breath deepened. And she was no longer inside her skin — she was the skin of everything. She became the slow pull of the moon on dark water.
The ache in the mango as it ripens toward falling. The fever in the lover’s palm and the answering tremble in the beloved’s throat.
The sweat on the victor’s brow and the surrender in the vanquished’s knees. The weight of the chain and the wrist that bears it without breaking.
The silence before the note, and the note that splits the silence open. She kept moving — hips, heart, breath — until there was no mover left. Only the eternal, shuddering, liquid prayer of creation itself.
The line between the hand that shapes and the clay that yields dissolved. What was two became one pulse, one heat, one unbearable, unending joy.
She kept moving — until I was gone.
Until there was only... the shiver, the swell, the dance.
And She said-“ Yes”.
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 3:05 AM UTC
GOD’S OWN BEAUTY
The purity lives in each common thing:
In mango stains, in bills left unpaid,
In thunder splitting night, in a child’s smile.
Nothing here was ever made permanent
To in-house a smaller or a bigger God
Yet we tighten our pillars of belief
The sky to fit our fear, build ceilinged doubt
Where horizons ran into emptiness and void
We name it strict, faith as foundation
And call the river wrong for spilling out.
So I will look today in both extremes—
In joy’s bright apple, wine-drop melody,
And in the ache that tears apart our dreams.
If God is all, then all is sanctuary.
BETWEEN THE LINES
Blue Sky had been watching a long time. He did not blink. Below him, Woman stood in a body that had forgotten it was holy. Then she moved. Consciousness does not think itself into being. It feels itself into form.
This world is the slow, aching, luminous stretch of the Creator’s body. Dancers flicker in and out like fireflies against night, but the dance — the dance remains.
Warm. Living. Hungry for more of itself. Many times, when her body gave itself to movement, something holy brushed the nape of her neck. Not a touch. A remembering.
In those moments, her ribs opened. Her breath deepened. And she was no longer inside her skin — she was the skin of everything. She became the slow pull of the moon on dark water.
The ache in the mango as it ripens toward falling. The fever in the lover’s palm and the answering tremble in the beloved’s throat.
The sweat on the victor’s brow and the surrender in the vanquished’s knees. The weight of the chain and the wrist that bears it without breaking.
The silence before the note, and the note that splits the silence open. She kept moving — hips, heart, breath — until there was no mover left. Only the eternal, shuddering, liquid prayer of creation itself.
The line between the hand that shapes and the clay that yields dissolved. What was two became one pulse, one heat, one unbearable, unending joy.
She kept moving — until I was gone.
Until there was only... the shiver, the swell, the dance.
And She said-“ Yes”.
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
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