I have worn ten thousand faces,
many more limbs than that;
known the tender
care of ten
thousand mothers
and the agony
of giving birth.
I have fallen in battle,
sung by the Ganges,
made love to kings.
I have taken tea with angels
and died quietly in caves.
These bodies,
wrapped like robes,
cloak what does not change.
Our glory is not our own.
Only one brightness blazes
behind the curtain —
shimmering into multiplicity,
playing at form.
I, you, they,
never anything
but this brightness,
never
any
thing
at all.
I have worn ten thousand faces,
and in my heart only God.
Photo provided by the author.