Poem 505

In plain words

The tree is the sturdy thing, my friend; the branch is the firm hold, my friend; miss your footing, let go your hold, and you reach Parabrahman itself, my friend; the essence is the oil, my friend; Satya is the wick, my friend; when the light is spent, no one goes along with you, my friend! The fort has seven walls round it, my friend; inside the fort is a garden, my friend; if we would go into the garden, we do not know the way: how, then, my friend? The spring of affection that wells up in the mind, in that water of tender attachment the garden of the heart is soaked: plant in it the seedling of Prema; the word that is our own, within the mind: that is the sweet path.