As long as I believed there were countless things in this world besides you, that you were merely one object among a thousand, I could not grasp you. I thought you were somewhere behind all these things. At times I doubted whether you truly existed. I believed only I existed within myself, and that you were present only faintly, in shadow—and even this I would doubt. You have lifted me from that terrible darkness of doubt.
Now I see: there is nothing but you. These countless forms are all your forms. When I look within, I find you fill the inner space entirely. Between you and me there is no difference. Everything is yours; I possess nothing of my own. Now when I try to grasp "I," I find I cannot. Wherever I reach out my hand, there you are. Yet I cannot exist without saying "I." Even as I dissolve into you, even as I merge with you, I still say "I." I cannot stop saying it, nor will I ever. This "I" that I speak even while being entirely yours—in this, it seems, lies your love, this is your creation!
I have long heard these words; now I see them. The mystery of this "I" I cannot fathom, nor do I wish to. That this "I" itself is your love, your absorption, your intoxication—seeing this, I am fulfilled. Your absorption is no longer conjecture or reasoning; I see it, hear it, touch it, taste it now. What strange devotion this is!
No mother is so absorbed in her child. No lover is so absorbed in his beloved. Which mother can enter so deep? Which lover or beloved can penetrate so far within? I cannot understand why you are so absorbed in me.
What do I possess that could draw you? I know there is nothing. And if there were something, it would be your gift, your own thing. I cannot find the reason for your love; your love is groundless, unconditional. Those who are loved for beauty and virtue live in fear—fear that beauty may fade, that faults may be discovered, that love may depart. No such fear attends your love. This unconditional love will never leave, nothing can ever take it away. I have no claims upon you. You love purely, needlessly, moved only by your own nature, drawn by the pulse of your own being—you cannot help but love, so you do.
Even if one day I should possess beauty, virtue, and love, my claims would not increase by even a measure. Those too would be your gifts, your possessions. I am utterly lowly, absolutely poor, worthless; I have nothing, and never shall. Keep me always in this emptiness. The emptier I become, the more I see you in that emptiness, and the sweeter you taste to me. The more I fill myself with possessions, the more I think I have something, the more I lose you, the more your sweetness fades. Let me remain forever poor, yet rich in you alone.