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CONTINUALLY dwelling in all
mystic lore,
Continually singing the song of praise
The atoms of the world will seem to you
Drunken and heavy with wine.
. . . When you have carded
self
Like the wool-carder, you will raise a cry.
Oh! take the cotton of illusion from your ears,
And hearken to the call of the One, the Almighty.
. . . Why tarry till the
last day
When now, in the valley of peace,
The very bush will say to you, "I am Allah"?