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Master Builder Poem
"Dream tree, of dreamed creation. Whose waving branches are the dance of God, which makes us crazy, and sets us house-building, and demolishing, and again building. On the [...] dharma [...]. Light. Light. The light from the Master's lips is the Scriptures. From His hands, the path setting. From His eyes, the tearing of veils. The ruin of the last built house. But, build we our houses...With bricks of impressions, cement of desire (mixed with tears). Build we our houses, so well-pleased, so well-pleased! Come into my house--wipe your feet first, wipe your feet...Come into my house. Sit we, and talk we, smile, and be gay. No God-talk, please, or illusioned-away talk. God-talk and way-talk is crank-talk, not tea-talk! Gay talk, for you, for me talk. With sun, reduced sun, of Venetian blinds in this house of me-house, built by me. Master Builder, Master Builder...The one who built this lousy little house builds also universes, spins suns in burning, hums earths around them, spaces them in spacelessness, times them from timelessness, and orders the time of their ceasing from turning. Master Builder, Master Builder...Self, the Creator. Self, the Sustainer. Self, the Destroyer. Self, the mere maker of image of Himself. Little household, right are your tears of happiness and sorrow. Portion self-gotten, pitiable your bed and table, and boudoir. Pitiable and glorious."
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