When the Master says, ‘Nothing for you!’ what, then, is left?

The grape, the olive and the seed
Yield their juice and oil under the press or the screw;

That place of fire where steel is forged,
diamonds are made and suns are born.

Not upon a soft and comfy bed.
How many lives does it take?
Who can say it is this, or that?

To remember is to die in Love,
To rise reborn through separation’s turning;

It was You who turned the press;
You who gave; who took away;
You, merciful in grace
You, merciless in extracting and distilling,
You who brought me separation,
You who dragged me through the door
And across the threshold to that
Place of Light and Beauty that knows no end.

In nothing is everything, that is Your secret.