My heart is a ghost.
In the cold autumn night of my soul
Palely lighting but not revealing the frosted
Landscape of my mind.
A spectral Hunter’s moon, it outlines
The dying leaves of hope, but shows not their colors.
In spring, my heart flowered: a bright-colored bed,
Spread for the ease of the Beloved.
In summer, my heart grew warm and ripened,
Bearing sweet fruit for love’s supper table.
With each change of season, my heart waited.
When will the Beloved come–
Not even the wind sighed an answer.
Now autumn has come, but my heart bears no harvest.
From fall’s chilling frost, love-lost, frozen, it died.
Only its shade-light, moon-like, fills my mind’s eye.
My heart is a ghost — in my soul hear it cry:
“Where is the Beloved? To his arms I would fly.”
— Bhai Din