You show us gently, in a million ways,
how low we are and if we don’t reach higher
we won’t survive beyond the end of days.
A few have made it to that holy place.
Cool mountain breezes are the purifier,
selected one amongst a million ways.
The rest have hands out, reaching in a daze,
vision blurred, skewered by their desire
for things consumed before the end of days.
Like fabled children, lost within a maze.
Not noticing the walls are getting higher,
no means to choose between a million ways.
And in the distance we can see the haze,
the licking flames, the smoke, the heat, the fire,
Consuming all beyond the end of days.
But now, at last, you let us see your face,
as near to truth allowed by Mahamaya.
You love us gently in a million ways,
With you we’ll stay beyond the end of days.
