O’ Cup-Bearer, reveal Thy flame,
Let not this weary soul grow tame.
No earthly drink can touch the deep,
As one true glance that makes me leap.

Through barren lands my spirit roams,
Unchained, unbound, it seeks its home.
All vows I made, all oaths I swore,
Were swept away when Love’s door tore.

Pour not from cups of earthly clay,
But let Thy gaze light up my way.
No goblet holds the wine I seek—
I drink the glance that makes me weak.

What need of wine, or earthly grace,
When Thy pure light fills all space?
O’ stream of truth! O’ starry gleam!
Engulf the world, and birth the dream.

I know the tavern, I know the door,
Where souls are lost and spirits soar.
Strike out my name, my transient breath—
And write me in the book of death.

Not death of flesh, but death of “I”—
That I may in Thy Truth arise.
Thou art the Flame, the Sea, the Sky—
The Breath where all the ages lie.

So pour, O’ Bearer, pour the light,
Let soul be drowned in Thy delight.
No glass remains, no self, no shore—
Naught but Thy gaze, forevermore.

Turn thy beautiful eyes toward me,
Not as mere mortal meets the sea,
But as the dawn with reverent flame
Beholds the night, and speaks its name.

A pilgrim lone, through shadowed vale,
I seek the breath behind the veil.
Not ease I crave, nor lover’s kiss,
But that which dwells in deeper bliss.

The world is but a fleeting shade,
Its glories brief, its colours fade.
Yet in thine eyes—a sovereign fire,
That stirs the dust with old desire.

Not roses red, nor spring’s perfume,
But Truth that blossoms from the tomb.
A voice that calls from heights unknown,
To rise, to stand, to be alone.

Thy gaze recalls that golden hour
When man walked forth in sacred power.
Thou art the mirror vast and wide,
Wherein my higher self doth hide.

So turn thy gaze, and lift me hence
Beyond the stars, beyond the sense.
Let this poor self in light be lost—
For all is gain, whate’er the cost.

A malady — or perhaps a curse —  
That swells within — a quiet verse,  
Her eyes, aglow — with secret fire,  
As if the world had spun entire  
Around that spark — a fleeting grace,  
A trace of Heaven — on her face.  

The glow, not born of earthly light,  
But something deep — a quiet fight  
Between the realms of flesh and air,  
Where mortals falter, yet she dares  
To lift the veil — and there, behold —  
A sacred tale, both fierce and old.  

It shimmers like a whispered prayer,  
A song that's sung — but never there.  
A verse, a rhythm, soft and true,  
But none can read the words that grew  
From that deep well, where time does slip,  
And souls are bound in ancient script.  

A curse, or blessing — who can say?  
Her gaze, the dawn, the dying day,  
An endless riddle wrapped in light —  
A burden and a dazzling sight.  
To touch it would consume the soul,  
Yet in its grasp, we are made whole.