the phoenix arising
from ashes of the fire
of passion ignited,
by the heat of desire,
ever hungry, forever wanting,
Searching for her mate.
Five hundred years she soared the skies,
Over mountains, fields and sea,
With hope of this meeting,
Which is never to be.
Her fate to be solitary,
Although ever hoping,
to unite with her lover,
for whom she is longing.
Complete within, the phoenix,
The male and female melding,
who needs no other to be whole
an androgyne- the perfect being.
Although perfect the phoenix is,
She, like humankind, desires
with her true mate, a Unity,
which fate denies her eternally,
So she may show to all of us,
That within us each, is present,
That absent one, for whom we cry,
Our true lover, whose name is “I”.
Because desire for another,
True purpose, she forsaking,
The gods then bade her burn
on the pyre of her own making.
from her wholeness,
emerged a new creation,
from what remained ,
the ashes of her desolation.
she lives again, another age
so that all mortals, remembering,
Through myths of her, the firebird,
Same it is – the ending and beginning.
But, if return will someday bring
At last, to us, our lover true,
I, a mortal, and like the phoenix,
Will bravely go with hope anew,
With all forsaking,
Ever yearning,
through pain of the fire,
of my own making.
From desire, the chains of matter feeds,
Upon the spirit which must be free.
Then, we must, as the phoenix return,
to the same cycle, which is always to be.
When no longer we seek beyond,
When desire is stilled, and in sleep lie,
We will then hear that whisper from our heart,
And we find our true lover, whose name is “I”.
