O God, they've blown a black hole in Your creation,
When we're all One -how can anyone kill His own Being?
Now where have they gone?
How to comfort them in this Night without Song.
They wage war whenever God-man comes rather than yield.
Forced both Krishna and Mohammed onto the battlefield.
Stubborn men who won't surrender
Find Love cannot be stormed by violence
Rather than bow at His Lotus feet, sweet innocence
They kill themselves and others in hate.
I am weeping alone -for terrorists who'll repent too late.
They've blown a hole in Your creation,
World Trade is a burial ruin in my nation.
We invited those here for freedom
Like children rivals for a better song
We played, battled, like cubs in a lair,
But not with Jihad demons of despair.
Why start a holy war for Armageddon
'Cause no one listens to your Song?
Those who build golden calves and Camelots
Dot coms with stocks, politics now called patriots
Clamoring for yet another World's End?
O God, they've blown a hole in Your creation
They've buried innocents in my nation.
Where we're all One under Beloved's Sun
How can anyone kill another in God's Ocean?
Where have they all gone? - Firefighters - father & son?
Lovers, daughters, of liberty nation.
No comfort in this Night without Song.
God gave him an inheritance of $300 million
And he rains curses and sorrow on everyone!
His Muslim brothers hide their eyes in shame
God-man came again but with a different name.
Each time He's the same, but with a different name.
Whatever hope for World Peace
Did we lose it with this sacrifice?
Whatever prayers for World Peace
For the New Humanity of God's Grace
For us whom God-man made His sacrifice.
Is it shattered forever from our dream?
Or is this just the Night before our Souls' awakening?
We are all One in His creation;
Saint or sinner, loser or winner.
Beloved they've blown a hole in Your creation
Like tearing a sacred painting in my home
I am weeping, I am restless, grieving in sadness.
Is every black hole in outer space,
Where not even a photon of Light can escape,
Paradise Lost where some fiend blew up such a place?
Have we offended You, Master of all Grace?
Now Americans blow up the poorest land of all
Afghanistani refugees starving - what disgrace!
And in every one, I see Your darling Face.
Meher have You left me here alone?
In this nightmare without God-man?
In this madness and sorrow
Where can we find comfort now?
Those I sing with and laugh
Tho' once, laughter and rivals for a song,
I hug them now in my heart all day long.
For last week lying dead in my path
I found the sweet, white cooing dove
Message of Love from above
That the time of peace is gone?
The father has no time to teach his son.
Music or war - all is in Your hand O Saki.
My only hope whether in prayer or in bazaar,
Beloved, is that your loving Nazaar
Remains on me - no matter my destiny. O Saki!
Karen weeps "Keep me with You, Meher." (Meherkaren)
Though the earth provides enough for everyone's eating,
Half the world doesn't fill its belly because of cheating.
If we'd not opened a bank-account in the name of Anger
We'd not need traveller's cheques, for where'd we be stranger?
And peace talk is verbal diarrhea so long as Greed
Deprives half the world daily of a decent feed.
Why can't we work out a just and simple economy,
Instead of bringing up our sons for war and our daughters for harlotry?
Instead of hand-outs wouldn't it be better not to have any poor?
Instead of locks wouldn't it be better not to have any door?
Wouldn't it be grand if there were no poor and no food-clothes donors?
But all were rich and strove in friendly strife for poverty's honors -
Marching to the City of Love, to the Beloved's palace,
Sweeping the steps with their eyebrows to force Him to show His face?
And He sitting in the Diamond Hall welcoming everyone -
His feet white as mountain snow and His face shining like the sun.
From such a world I'd never wish to be absent for long -
Men and women and children like lillies of the field, full of song.
These aren't the times for the clean phrase,
clear meaning, the straight sentence;
For the turning and the praise that marks the true repentance.
Your commodity, poet's superfluous in these Kali Yuga times;
You may as well face it, once and for all,
nobody wants clear sweet rhymes.
These are the times to talk fashion, machines, electronic gadgetry,
To praise Big Business, sing markets, dot-coms Enron racketry.
True, complaints of neglect have been voiced all down the ages;
But there've been times when kisses and gold
were paid for fair pages.
In verse or prose - words carefully, lovingly chosen,
Clean as bell-chimes at even-song.
That stock is momentarily frozen.
But take heart, poet, conditions have now reached rock bottom.
God cannot stand any longer our words of Gomorrah and Sodom.
In the creative silence of pure Existence, God rehearses
His Song of Songs; and those who praise His Song
will be very well paid for their verses. (F. Brabazon)