Vira Chandra: Some songs wear their mystery openly. Others hide it in plain sight, disguised in the language of love, longing, or even cliché. “Send Me an Angel” by Scorpions belongs to the second kind. On the surface, it’s a rock ballad about yearning and guidance. But beneath the melody, the words pulse with something older, something deeper: the unmistakable voice of Śakti slipping through the cracks of ordinary language.
When read through the Kaula–Śākta vision, the song ceases to be just lyrics. It becomes a map of initiation — a dialogue between the seeker and the inner guide, the Guru within the heart. The “wise man” is not merely an external counselor; he is the whisper of the Goddess Herself, the one who calls from deep inside. The “angel” is not a foreign messenger, but the descent of Grace (śakti-pāta), which alone can turn longing into realization. Even the “land of the morning star” reveals itself as the liminal threshold where illusion and liberation meet, where Venus as desire and Venus as Light are one.
To listen this way is to recognize that the song is not merely entertainment but revelation — a hymn to the mystery of surrender, struggle, and illumination. Let us now enter stanza by stanza, and see how each verse opens another doorway into the Kaula path.
Verse 1
Wise man said, "Just walk this way
To the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face
As the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside
It's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and you will find
Passage out of the dark"
The opening lines already carry the tone of initiation. The “wise man” is not necessarily a figure outside us — he is the eternal teacher who sometimes appears as Guru, sometimes as stranger, sometimes as an almost inaudible murmur inside our chest. His words are not complicated instructions. They are as simple as a mother telling her child, “Come, just walk.” The path opens not through heroic effort, but through the willingness to take a step toward light.
“To the dawn of the light” — dawn is not yet noon. It is fragile, uncertain, tinged with shadow. It is the moment when night still clings, but a promise has already broken through. This is the beginning of awakening: not triumph, but a quiet turning, when the heart first feels the stir of something larger than itself.
“The wind will blow into your face / As the years pass you by” — this is the admission that the way is not smooth. Time itself is resistance: the wind of change, age, loss, mortality. Walking toward the light does not remove these currents; it teaches us to face them without flinching. The seeker must learn to breathe into the wind, to let it carve away the masks and leave only what is true.
Then comes the secret: “Hear this voice from deep inside / It’s the call of your heart.” Here the tone shifts from external instruction to intimate revelation. The path is not out there, in distant scriptures or elaborate rituals, but in the immediate pulse of one’s own being. The heart — not sentiment, not emotion, but the innermost core where the finite touches the infinite — is calling. The song dares to say that listening to this voice is enough.
“Close your eyes and you will find / Passage out of the dark.” The final instruction completes the circle: what seemed like a journey outward into dawn becomes a journey inward into the heart. The eyes, so used to chasing forms, are asked to rest. In that rest, the passage opens. Darkness is not fought against, but dissolved when the source of light within is uncovered.
This is the paradox: the “wise man” gives guidance, but the destination is already inside the listener. What is asked of us is not acquisition, but trust — the courage to walk into ourselves.
Chorus
Here I am (Here I am)
Will you send me an angel?
Here I am (Here I am)
In the land of the morning star
The chorus is like the naked cry of the soul once the first step has been taken. After the wise man’s guidance, the seeker finds themselves standing in the open, stripped of excuses: Here I am. There is both vulnerability and courage in those words. They are a confession that nothing more can be hidden — no role, no mask, no defense. To stand before the Divine is to stand without coverings.
“Will you send me an angel?” — On the surface, this is a request for a messenger, a helper. But deeper, it is the plea for grace. The human effort has limits; the step must be answered by descent. The “angel” here is not a winged figure but the touch of living Presence that comes when one surrenders. It is the sudden shift when longing turns into confirmation: a voice, a sign, a subtle current moving through the body. The angel is the bridge between mortal cry and immortal response.
“In the land of the morning star” — this phrase carries a double edge. The morning star (Venus, shining at dawn) has long been a symbol of both desire and illumination. It is liminal, appearing when night still clings and day has not yet fully arrived. To stand in its land is to stand in the threshold between illusion and truth, between Māyā and liberation. Desire itself glimmers with light, and light itself can burn with the hunger of desire.
The seeker therefore cries “Here I am” in precisely this place of ambiguity — not in a monastery, not in perfect clarity, but in the half-light where passion and awakening mingle. This is where grace is needed most, and this is where the angel descends.
The chorus is repeated again and again in the song, because the cry itself is the practice. To say “Here I am” with sincerity, again and again, is already the door.
Verse 2
Wise man said, "Just find your place
In the eye of the storm
Seek the roses along the way
Just beware of the thorns"
The voice of guidance returns, but now it speaks of balance rather than beginnings. “Find your place in the eye of the storm” — storms rage everywhere: in society, in relationships, in our own restless mind. Yet in the very center of the cyclone there is stillness, an unmoving core. The instruction is not to flee the storm or to conquer it, but to enter it so deeply that one arrives at its silent center. Spiritual maturity does not mean escape from chaos but discovering the point within where chaos cannot reach.
Then comes the paradoxical invitation: “Seek the roses along the way.” The path is not barren. Even amid struggle, beauty blooms — moments of love, fragrance of friendship, flashes of tenderness, joy. To deny these would be false renunciation, a rejection of the sacred woven into the ordinary. The wise voice affirms that beauty is not a distraction; it is a signpost, a gift meant to be savored on the way.
But roses do not come alone. “Just beware of the thorns.” Every sweetness carries its danger. Attachment, pride, and clinging can turn a blessing into bondage. Yet the instruction is not “reject the roses” — it is beware. Awareness transforms both rose and thorn into teachers. To touch the rose with care is to accept life in its fullness, to let joy arise without being trapped by it.
This verse teaches the art of discernment. Spirituality is not grim austerity, nor reckless indulgence. It is learning to walk through storms with poise, to breathe the fragrance without wounding oneself, to let the world be both storm and rose and still remain free at heart.
Verse 3
Wise man said, "Just raise your hand
And reach out for the spell
Find the door to the promised land
Just believe in yourself
Hear this voice from deep inside
It's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and you will find
The way out of the dark"
The imagery here shifts from walking and watching to reaching. The seeker is no longer only guided forward but invited to act — to raise the hand. This gesture carries the symbolism of surrender and invocation: one hand lifted toward the unseen, acknowledging that what is sought cannot be seized by force, only received.
“Reaching out for the spell” evokes the transformative current that language itself can carry — not ordinary words, but words charged with presence. The “spell” is that vibration which awakens when touched with faith. It is less about reciting a formula than about entering resonance with the sacred rhythm already pulsing through existence.
The promise of a “door” to the promised land is not an escape to another world, but the recognition that liberation is accessible here, now. Every human being carries within themselves a threshold that can be crossed, if only one has the courage to look inward rather than outward for salvation.
The counsel to “believe in yourself” can easily be mistaken as egoic encouragement. But in this context it points toward a deeper truth: to trust that the Self — the living essence within — is not separate from the divine. Belief in this deeper self is not arrogance but recognition: the same force that calls is also the one that answers.
The verse then circles back to the heart’s voice and the closing of the eyes, repeating the teaching from the beginning. Yet repetition here is not redundancy — it is deepening. The path is not linear but spiral, returning again and again to the same truth, each time more intimate. The way out of darkness does not lie in running from it, but in listening, surrendering, and trusting the heart until its call becomes unmistakable.
Final Reflection
What begins as a simple rock ballad slowly reveals itself as a map of the soul’s journey. A guide whispers of dawn, storms, roses, and hidden doors — yet every image points back to the same truth: the voice in the heart. Again and again, the song circles back to the cry, “Here I am. Will you send me an angel?”
This refrain is not weakness. It is the essence of the path. For the human being cannot complete the journey by effort alone; grace must descend. Yet the descent is not arbitrary — it comes precisely in the moment of naked sincerity, when one dares to stand undefended before the Mystery. To say “Here I am” with all one’s vulnerability is already to open the door.
And what of the “morning star”? It is the liminal realm where darkness and light touch. Desire and awakening, illusion and truth, storm and stillness — all meet there. The seeker does not transcend the world by rejecting it, but by walking straight into its storm, by smelling the rose without denial of the thorn, by raising the hand not in conquest but in trust.
In this way the song speaks a secret many scriptures also whisper: the path is not somewhere else. It is already here, within. The angel longed for is none other than the heart’s own radiance, waiting to be recognized.
So the final note is not just a cry for help, but an initiation into presence. Here I am. That is enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment