The drunkards are arriving,

The drunkards are rolling in slowly.

Those who hold the wine are approaching,

The lovers come singing from the Garden -

The ones with brilliant eyes.

The I don't want to lives are leaving,

The I want to lives are moving in:

They have gold sewn into their clothes,

Sewn in for those who have none.

Those with ribs showing who have been grazing

In the old pastures of love, are turning up fat & frisky.

The souls of pure Teachers are arriving

Like rays of sunlight from way up there -

to the ground huggers.

How marvelous is that Garden

where apples & roses & pears are arriving in the winter

For the sake of the mother.

Those fruits grow from the Gift

and they are sent back to the Gift:

It must be that they are coming

from the Garden to the Garden.


Our heart is a grain of wheat.

Our personality is the wheat.

Our personality does not know what it is grinding.

The body is the stone.

Our thought-life is the water.

The stone asks the water what is going on.

And the water says,

The man over there knows this whole scene,

He let me flow, he let me go…

And if you ask the man, he says,

All I know, O gobbler of bread, is that if this stone

Stops going around, they'll be no bread

for your bread soup!

Making bread is a complicated business. So

Just be quiet,

And ask the Secret One in silence,

"Why do we make bread?"