But it is no good talking to you, Baba — you are just too-much love.
Whatever we say, you just smile with your smile of divine kindness
as much as to say, "Ho, these children of mine, Myself, —
why did I ever wake up and start singing?" This singing of your smile
stretching out and supporting the nothingness of us-of-the-Nothing.
Oh, and the Dawn-song of His mouth. — I only hope I am still around then.
It's no good talking to One who is the SAYING of the say which one says,
because he doesn't listen because he knows exactly what he is going to say. —
Tired and tired am I of myself. For the wide expanse of the sky
of your bosom I cry. Awake in my heart that I may love you with service —
or else be dust before your feet: anything but this not-even-nothing,
nor a place in your Everything; something, O my Child and my Father.
