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A moment's halt, a momentary taste
of Being from the well amidst the waste,
and lo! — the phantom caravan has reached
the Nothing it set out from — Oh, make haste!
Would you that spangle of existence spend
chasing the secret? — Quick about it, friend!
A hair perhaps divides the false and true —
and does it really matter in the end?
A hair perhaps divides the false and true;
a single slender alif might be the clue —
could you but find it — to the treasure-house
and peradventure to the Master too.
Whose secret presence, thru creation's veins
racing quicksilver-like eludes your pains,
and takes each shape and size from fish to moon
that change and perish all — tho He remains.
A moment glimpsed — then back behind the fold
of night around the drama tightly rolled:
the drama which to fill His endless hours
He does Himself contrive, enact, behold.