Graphite on 110 gsm Paper (A4)
This is one of my most favourite pieces of poetry by the spiritual teacher, Jiddu Krishnamurti. How beautifully and how simply he writes of the most profound of experiences:
O listen! I shall sing to thee the song of my Beloved.
Where the soft green slopes of the still mountains Meet the blue shimmering waters of the noisy sea, Where the bubbling brook shouts in ecstasy, Where the still pools reflect the calm heavens, There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the vale where the cloud hangs in loneliness, Searching the mountain for rest, In the still smoke climbing heavenwards, In the hamlet towards the setting sun, In the thin wreaths of the fast disappearing clouds, There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
Among the dancing tops of the tall cypress, Among the gnarled trees of great age, Among the frightened bushes that cling to the earth, Among the long creepers that hang lazily, There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the plowed fields where noisy birds are feeding, On the shaded path that winds along the full, motionless river, Beside the banks where the waters lap, Amidst the tall poplars that play ceaselessly with the winds, In the dead tree of last summer’s lightning, There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the still blue skies Where heaven and earth meet, In the breathless air, In the morn burdened with incense, Among the rich shadows of a noon-day, Among the long shadows of an evening, Amidst the gay and radiant clouds of the setting sun, On the path on the waters at the close of the day, There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
In the shadows of the stars, In the deep tranquillity of dark nights, In the reflection of the moon on still waters, In the great silence before the dawn, Among the whispering of waking trees, In the cry of the bird at morn, Amidst the wakening of shadows, Amidst the sunlit tops of the far mountains, In the sleepy face of the world, There thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
Keep still, O dancing waters, And listen to the voice of my Beloved.
In the happy laughter of children Thou canst hear Him. The music of the flute Is His voice. The startled cry of a lonely bird Moves thy heart to tears, For thou hearest His voice. The roar of the age-old sea Awakens the memories That have been lulled to sleep By His voice. The soft breeze that stirs The treetops lazily, Brings to thee the sound Of His voice.
The thunder among the mountains Fills thy soul With the strength Of His voice. In the roar of a vast city, Through the shrill moan of swift passing vehicles, In the throb of a distant engine, Through the voices of the night, The cry of sorrow, The shout of joy, Through the ugliness of anger, Comes the voice of my Beloved.
In the distant blue isles, On the soft dewdrop, On the breaking wave, On the sheen of waters, On the wing of the flying bird, On the tender leaf of spring, Thou wilt see the face of my Beloved.
In the sacred temple, In the halls of dancing, On the holy face of the sannyasi, In the lurches of the drunkard, With the harlot and with the chaste, Thou wilt meet with my Beloved.
On the fields of flowers, In the towns of squalor and dirt, With the pure and the unholy, In the flower that hides divinity, There is my well-Beloved.
Oh! the sea Has entered my heart. In a day, I am living a hundred summers. O friend, I behold my face in thee, The face of my well-Beloved.
This is the song of my love.