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I felt love, and it was a soulless, moving empathy, unbounded by selfish commitments.
Not held by language or limited by occasion.
It flowed through friends, toward me, and I was caught in its abundance
Drifting light in myriad shades of marvel and amusement.

But ‘soulless’ means the opposite of what you imagine.
Dualism of mind and body instead supplanted by an organic whole.
This thing, this love happening not to me but through me,
The ‘I’ that is part of me being not the true self but a construction.

Psychologists and scientists plot the progression, but only I
Can feel the force of millennia, the flow from source to conclusion.
The genesis of a universe, happening every second,
Outbound curve of each moment away from its centre.

The pious imagine the source of this happiness in exclusion
And give it heaven’s name, singing its praise
But this love flows not toward or away from a God:
That being a persuasion, a limit we have lost the use of.

Nothing we cannot feel for ourselves.
Another construct of man in his effort to contain.
For only by wonder, and the abandonment of senses
Can we appreciate the unity that exists in all things.