Bacchic bhakti

every thought a thought of You
no more thought i ought to do
when there ain’t a thing we see
or touch we trust is true
every thought a thought of You

every look in search of You
no need for book when we’re with You
You wear a thin disguise,
oh Light within my brother’s eyes
every look a search for You

every song in praise of You
our darkest nights are days to You
the trees raise branches high
like arms in church to grateful sky
every song in praise of You

no one here to believe but You
everyone else is bound to leave but you
when they swear their love is real,
they mean “i like the way you make me feel”
there’s no one here to believe but you

kul-anaya fikr minh ka
abadan ahatmam enna ajab
hayyaalal falal qad qamadis alah
Haqq: la illaha il Allah

– mewithoutYou, Every Thought A Thought Of You

O Thebes, nursemaid of Semele,
put on your ivy crown,
flaunt your green yew,
flaunt its sweet fruit!
Consecrate yourselves to Bacchus,
with stems of oak or fir,
Dress yourselves in spotted fawn skins,
trimmed with white sheep’s wool.
As you wave your thyrsus,
revere the violence it contains.
All the earth will dance at once.
Whoever leads our dancing—
that one is Bromius!
To the mountain, to the mountain,
where the pack of women waits,
all stung to frenzied madness
to leave their weaving shuttles,
goaded on by Dionysus.
He’s welcome in the mountains,
when he sinks down to the ground,
after the running dance,
wrapped in holy deerskin,
hunting the goat’s blood,
blood of the slain beast,
devouring its raw flesh with joy,
rushing off into the mountains,
in Phrygia, in Lydia,
leading the dance—
Bromius—Evoë!
The land flows with milk,
the land flows with wine,
the land flows with honey from the bees.
He holds the torch high,
our leader, the Bacchic One,
blazing flame of pine,
sweet smoke like Syrian incense,
trailing from his thyrsus.
As he dances, he runs,
here and there,
rousing the stragglers,
stirring them with his cries,
thick hair rippling in the breeze.
Among the Maenads’ shouts
his voice reverberates:
“On Bacchants, on!
With the glitter of Tmolus,
which flows with gold,
chant songs to Dionysus,
to the loud beat of our drums.
Celebrate the god of joy
with your own joy,
with Phrygian cries and shouts!
When sweet sacred pipes
play out their rhythmic holy song,
in time to the dancing wanderers,
then to the mountains,
on, on to the mountains.”
Then the bacchanalian woman
is filled with total joy—
like a foal in pasture
right beside her mother—
her swift feet skip in playful dance.

– Euripides, The Bakchai