From this most august and exalted station, and from this most sublime and glorious plane, the seeker entereth the City of Immortality, therein to abide forever. In this station he beholdeth himself established upon the throne of independence and the seat of exaltation. Then will he comprehend the meaning of that which hath been revealed of old concerning the day “whereon God shall enrich all through His abundance”. Well is it with them that have attained unto this station and drunk their fill from this snow-white chalice before this Crimson Pillar.
–Bahá’u’lláh, Gems of Divine Mysteries pp. 71–72
“These Icy Waters Penultimate”
These icy waters penultimate, comforts’ flights through fingers, soothing,
Recollections from the four extremities to the single temples, cacoëthes,
Familiars to peculiars within from ceilings above the abyss below; yes, ease
To what will soon be here to take on form and body, the coryphaeus choosing
Some new chapter, or yet another verse as will burn the notebooks, pages
Surprised with vagaries and beads that track the progress of thoughtlessness
In waning weighty midnights; even without the prodigal kiss, confinement less
Refined induces eternal possibilities of that one last question: to the sage,
Reprieve, to the master, his own breath and nothing short of venom for the fool.
Of course, I raise the hour glass to honour wasted days as though I’d paid,
My friend, while you succomb to every passing witness who at his pleasure sees
Nothing as everything; you, no recipient, no pontiff for the spirit in the pool,
No immersion when the waters are troubled —”Too cold,” you’ll say.
From time to time I’ll pass by this extreme and found another single book,
A signature of disappearance from this régime to time, recalled,
and not so bound by what we learned but how we used to look.