It’s not your birth that astounds me,
it is your death.
You made an instrument of torture
into a place in the heart where Nature gleams.
By accepting suffering
and burning up the ego–
–like ringing a bell, you showed that all I love
and all I am were inseparably divine all along.
Here inside, as close as my heart.
Not out there somewhere, right here.
That was you. You did that.
No one can un-ring that bell, ever.
That was the work
Of a master poet.