It Is Night Poem by William Pryor

it is night:
mind likes to think
it does the doing.
It hurts: it is not
Sat Guru's selfless action,
the dharma, that which the tao does:
love action.

It is night:
that I merit no grace
nor even favour,
he knows yet gives me light
more anxious than I
for this particle's return to the wave.

It is night:
he lets me think I crawl towards him,
while he prepares my selffulness,
the only obstacle between us,
for drowning in love.

The hurdles he has me jumping
to gain the strength to die,
to withdraw all wasted attention,
they hurt: only he knows the love
I crave to endure them.

I only have his forgiveness,
his compassion for my sightless seeing,
driven in the seeming of mind and body,
desperate for some reality,
to be lasting through to the inner,
the long longing.
It is night:
as long as attention is dissipated
in desires, always unsatisfiable,
I will wander, thinking
it does what is done,
not tuned to the dharma
that has to be done.

It is night:
but, though I only seem,
I am really,
I am wrapped in light.