You once told me that the day I truly love you, I will know you completely. But what is love, then? I haven't forgotten you entirely—I spend almost all my time away from you. I have no desire to come near you. Even when I do go to you, I cannot keep my eyes fixed upon you. I have not forgotten your beauty. And so I understand: I have not truly known you. If I had, it would not be this way. If I had known you, I would be occupied with you; your absence would cause me pain; your presence would bring sweetness.
Knowledge has humbled my pride. For all my study, all my thought and deliberation, I have not come to know you. Then has the pursuit of knowledge been in vain? Has all that labour been fruitless? Yet I cannot think so. That I can know you so intimately now, know you as the soul of my soul, know your essence, speak with you—none of this would be possible had I not striven for knowledge. True knowledge—the kind that brings love, enchantment, absorption—even that is showing itself through this very pursuit of knowledge.
Tell me now: how does divine knowledge come to be? You say it comes by the same path that brought me here. This path is the path of hearing, of reflection, of practice—through steadfast meditation and concentration, reaching toward samadhi. My own sloth is the thorn in my way. My feet cannot move, yet my eyes still wish to see. When I catch even a glimpse of you, I long to immerse myself in you. But glimpses will no longer suffice. You must reveal yourself fully, and you must grant me the strength to persevere in practice. That which is the highest good, you have made rare—what can I say against such a law?
It is right. You have given me time; now give me strength. In one sense, you are the very height of accessibility—I need only wish, and I can see you. You have become the life of my life itself. You pervade all, take all forms, and exist everywhere. To gaze upon you is enough. Why can I not bear even this small burden of gazing? Let it be that in this gazing there is no pain, but rather joy. Then delusion has not yet departed from me.
When I say you pervade all, take all forms—I have not yet truly understood it. In the moment when I see you as truly omnipresent, as the innermost self, that vision itself is sweet. But in the very next moment, delusion returns. Your unbroken presence disappears, replaced by ordinary, worldly notions, and I turn my eyes away from you. If that vision—that steady, unwavering gaze—were to become constant, then, I believe, my heart would remain immersed in you; your absence would be painful; your presence would become an object of longing. I do not yet possess that knowledge which takes the form of such vision, and so I am poor; and so it seems to me I have achieved nothing. Without that longing, what have I truly gained? All my other efforts seem to me mere hacking at the forest.
Give me a fragment of love, kindle in me a spark of longing for you—and soon. Otherwise I shall think my whole life has been wasted. If your truth must be proclaimed through me, then as proof of having found that truth, grant me some love without delay. The infinite treasures of your kingdom of love lie undiscovered within my reach. You shall bestow them when you deem me worthy. Without some pull of the heart, I cannot go on. If I receive that pull, if I feel even the slightest desire to lose myself in you, then I shall know this life of struggle has not been in vain.