What Was That, And What Is This?

I am but an old beggar, bent and weary,
At the gate of the spiritual marketplace,
Asking of all who enter or leave,
“Sir, madam… please, can you tell me,
What was that… and what is this?!”

A beggar at the gate,
Not sitting “in front of”, teaching,
Asserting, like those in the stalls within,
For I know less with each breath,
Asking, rather, with each heartbeat,…
“What was that, and what is this?”

What was that Nonexistent Existence,
In which all things and I Vanished,
And the Dream of Dreams,
The Heart's Deepest Desire,
Remained.

"What was that?"

Was it the Heaven, within, that Jesus spoke of?
Was it the Paradise of The Beloved's Sufis?
Was it the Atman that the Hindus speak of?
Was it God, as many understand the word?
Or was it simply… a psychosomatic anomaly?

A beggar at the gate,
Not sitting “in front of”, teaching,
Not asserting, like those in the stalls within,
For I know less with each heartbeat,
Asking, rather, with each breath…

"What was that, and what is this?"

What is this touch of Nonexistent Existence,
That remained after manifest existence returned;
A Comforter, a Teacher, a Benediction,
A Wellspring of Perfection without opposite,
At the Heart of this imperfect vessel.

"What is this?"

Is it the Holy Spirit, that Jesus spoke of?
Is it The Beloved, The Friend, of the Sufis?
Is it the Bliss of the Atman, that the Hindus speak of?
Is it the Divine Presence of those who believe in God?
Or… is it simply, a psycho-somatic anomaly?

A beggar at the gate,
Not sitting “in front of”, teaching,
Not asserting, like those in the stalls within,
For I know less with each passing season,
Asking always, in each moment's dissolution…

“What was that, and what is this?”

Long ago I ventured into the marketplace,
Only to be driven back by the terrible din,
Of ten thousand voices asserting,
Declaring with certitude and authority,
Ten thousand interpretations of “Truth”.

Now, at last, I am leaving my station at the Gate,
No longer able to see clearly those who pass by,
Or hear their ten thousand “guesses”,
My fingers calloused by touching,
Ten thousand feet in gratitude.

After a lifetime of questioning,
I have come to a certitude of my own,
That while thousands teach what they “know”,
Only a handful, it appears, “Know”,
That… and This.

Though the mind persists in asking,
I Live now Surrendered to Not Knowing,
Having discovered that like myself,
Those who “Know” of That and This,
In Experience, beyond concept and theory…

“know” nothing…