You come in quiet moments, spells of great sharpness,
Drawn, brooding faces, know your light touch, feel your
silent presence,
And speak not a word.
The will to ‘be’ in that moment, is like a fire, extinguished.
Worthiness, unworthiness, neither lure you, nor drive you
away,
You come when the self has a way of knowing this quiet occurrence. |
| The Song of the Sufi Masroof |
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