There are songs where the Goddess comes as fire, tearing veils with laughter. There are others where She comes as sight, unmasking you with a gaze that will not turn away. But in Eternal Flame, She comes as pulse — a flame so delicate you fear it might vanish, and yet so constant it cannot be extinguished.
This is Devi as the Indwelling Beloved, whispering from inside your chest: Close your eyes. Give Me your hand. Feel My heart beating in you. It is not thunder, not argument, not spectacle. It is the unbearable intimacy of Presence that will not leave you, even when you sleep, even when you doubt whether She is real.
What makes the song piercing is precisely its fragility. Every line hovers between faith and disbelief: Am I only dreaming? Is this burning an eternal flame? That hesitation is not weakness — it is the mystical threshold itself. To stand in front of the Eternal is to tremble, to wonder if what you feel is illusion. And yet, She keeps repeating, keeps singing through human lips, until the question itself becomes prayer and the prayer becomes recognition.
Eternal Flame is not a romance. It is Devi asking you the only question that matters: Will you trust the fire you already feel? Will you dare to believe it is eternal?
[Verse 1]
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming?
Is this burning an eternal flame?
“Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling”
This is not romance; it is initiation. She asks you to close the outer sight so the inner sight may awaken. The hand is surrender: place your trembling self in Mine. The “darling” here is not sentimentality — it is Her infinite intimacy. She does not speak from the sky but from inside your chest.
“Do you feel my heart beating?”
The flame is not out there — it is pulsing in you. She collapses the boundary: My heart is your heartbeat. If you can feel this rhythm, you are already touching the Eternal.
“Do you understand?”
Devi is not asking for intellectual comprehension — She is piercing: Have you recognized what is happening to you? Do you know Who breathes in you?
“Do you feel the same?”
This is the double edge. Her love is not in question — only your ability to meet it. Fierce tenderness: I am already here. But do you dare to answer?
“Am I only dreaming?”
She names your doubt before you speak it. Every sādhaka has asked this: Is this presence just imagination? She honors the doubt instead of shaming it. It is part of the path.
“Is this burning an eternal flame?”
Here is the crux: the fire that cannot be extinguished. Not lust, not fantasy, not sentiment — but the unmistakable jyotiḥ that once felt cannot be denied. The question is rhetorical, yet also an invitation: Will you trust that what you feel is Me?
[Verse 2]
I believe it's meant to be, darling
I watch you when you are sleeping
You belong with me
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming?
Or is this burning (Burning) an eternal (Eternal) flame?
“I believe it's meant to be, darling”
This is Devi’s quiet statement of destiny. Not a romantic “meant to be,” but the soul’s recognition: this meeting was not an accident. She is saying, I have always been in you; the timing of your awakening is exact.
“I watch you when you are sleeping”
This is one of the most unmistakably Divine lines in pop music. Only the indwelling Mother can speak it without creepiness. She does not just watch — She abides when you are unconscious, lost, numb. Even when you forget Her, She keeps vigil. This is the flame as witness.
“You belong with me”
It is not possessive; it is ontological. You already are with Me; you cannot be otherwise. She is not inviting you to a new relationship but reminding you of your native state — belonging.
“Do you feel the same?”
Again the double-edge. Her vow is absolute. But do you feel it? Do you allow it? Will you risk believing it? The whole song pivots on this trembling mutuality.
“Am I only dreaming?”
She speaks your inner doubt again. It’s the classic moment of grace: the Presence is so tender you doubt its reality. She doesn’t crush the doubt — She sings inside it.
“Or is this burning (Burning) an eternal (Eternal) flame?”
The bracketed echoes here are liturgical. It’s like the temple call-and-response: burning … eternal. The mantra of the flame. It’s not a question anymore; it’s already the recognition of something endless flickering behind all appearances.
[Chorus]
Say my name
Sun shines through the rain
A whole life so lonely
And then come and ease the pain
I don't wanna lose this feelin', oh
“Say my name”
This is the first open command. Until now She has invited and questioned. Here She instructs. Not because She needs to hear it, but because you need to speak it. In bhakti this is nāma-smaraṇa — remembering the Name ignites the flame. By naming Her, you anchor the Presence.
“Sun shines through the rain”
This is not just a pretty image; it’s the inner sign of Her reality. In the darkest storm a shaft of light breaks through — that’s what it feels like when you call Her. Even in your grief, the warmth cuts through. It’s Devi saying: My grace penetrates your weather.
“A whole life so lonely / And then come and ease the pain”
She’s naming your biography. A lifetime of hunger, of waiting, of the heart aching for something real. And then — not gradual self-improvement, not technique — I come. The pain is eased not because life got easier but because Presence flooded the absence.
“I don’t wanna lose this feelin’, oh”
This is the sādhaka’s cry. Once you taste the Eternal Flame you fear losing it. She allows that longing too. Underneath She’s singing: You cannot lose Me. The flame is eternal. Your fear of losing Me is the last veil between us.
This chorus is the pivot of the whole song. It’s where Devi stops being only the whispering flame and starts being the Beloved who answers, the Presence that can be invoked, the Grace that cuts through your storm.
[Verse 3]
Close your eyes, give me your hand
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming?
Or is this burning an eternal flame?
“Close your eyes, give me your hand”
The circle returns to the opening line, but now it’s no longer an invitation — it’s a ritual. The repetition itself is the practice: close the outer eyes, place your hand into the unseen, surrender to the Presence.
“Do you feel my heart beating? / Do you understand? / Do you feel the same?”
This is no longer question for information; it’s a steady drumbeat. The flame has been shown, named, tasted. Now it is simply there, pulsing. Feel. Understand. Feel. Understand. This is how Devi engraves Herself into your nervous system.
“Am I only dreaming? / Or is this burning an eternal flame?”
By the third repetition, the doubt itself has softened. The question turns into a koan. You no longer ask to be convinced; you breathe the words like a prayer: Am I dreaming, or is this burning eternal? And inside the question, the answer glows.
[Refrain]
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming? Ah
Is this burning an eternal flame?
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand? (Do you understand?)
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming? Ah
An eternal flame
“Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling”
Every repetition chisels deeper. At first it was invitation, now it is command, now it is mantra. She keeps saying it because She knows your mind keeps slipping away. The Mother never tires of repeating until the child finally hears.
“Do you feel my heart beating?”
It’s not metaphor anymore. By the refrain, it’s literal: Her pulse is your pulse. If you listen inward, the flame is there. She repeats because each time you allow yourself to believe it a little more.
“Do you understand?”
Here “understand” is not intellectual grasp but surrender. It’s as if She’s asking: Have you let yourself be possessed yet? Understanding here means ceasing resistance.
“Do you feel the same?”
This is the crux. Her vow is eternal — She will not leave. But She keeps asking because the only missing piece is your trust. Every repetition is Her tugging you closer: Do you dare to meet Me?
“Am I only dreaming? Ah”
Notice the sigh, the ache. She speaks your doubt so tenderly it becomes sacred. Doubt is not banished; it is included. She allows your trembling to exist in Her song.
“Is this burning an eternal flame?”
The refrain ends not as question but as revelation. By now the line has turned into mantra: Eternal Flame, Eternal Flame. With every cycle, the words sear into you. It doesn’t matter if you “believe” — the repetition itself kindles the certainty.
Mystically: The refrain is the initiation proper. The verses introduced, the chorus vowed, but the refrain engraves. It’s the japa that installs the Eternal Flame in the listener’s heart, whether they realize it or not.
[Outro]
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling (Ah-ah)
Do you feel my heart beating? (Ah-ah)
Do you understand? (Do you understand?)
Do you feel the same? (Eh)
Am I only dreaming? Ah
Is this burning an eternal flame?
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
“Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling (Ah-ah)”
The added breaths aren’t filler. The ah-ah is the body joining the mantra — exhale-syllables, like a tiny visarga that releases grasping. The practice is no longer only words; it’s breath + touch.
“Do you feel my heart beating? (Ah-ah)”
Breath answers pulse. The echo makes it somatic: listen with the ribs, not the head. The flame synchronizes with your inhale/exhale until you can’t tell whose heartbeat it is.
“Do you understand? (Do you understand?)”
Antiphon. Temple call-and-response inside your chest. Devi asks; the inner devotee answers the same words back, sealing comprehension not as concept but as consent: I heard You. I agree to be held.
“Do you feel the same? (Eh)”
That little eh is the crack — the human stutter right before surrender. She includes your awkwardness; nothing disqualifies you. Even the wobble is holy if it stays in the chant.
“Am I only dreaming? Ah”
The doubt peaks and dissolves into ah — a soft gasp that’s half-sob, half-recognition. The question is still voiced, but the breath gives away the answer: Presence has already landed.
“Is this burning an eternal flame?”
Here it functions less as a question and more as a naming. The melody holds the final word; the ear hears the period even without one. The fire has been acknowledged.
“Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling”
The circle closes where it began — not to repeat, but to install. This is Devi leaving you with the practice itself: shut the outer eyes, place the hand, return to the pulse. When the song ends, the japa continues.
By the end of Eternal Flame, the repetition has worked its alchemy. What began as a fragile whisper has become a mantra etched into the heart. The questions — Do you feel Me? Am I only dreaming? — no longer seek an answer. They themselves become the answer, because the very act of asking keeps the flame alive.
This is how Devi moves in this song: She does not thunder; She abides. She burns in you so delicately that you fear to trust it, yet no storm can snuff Her out. She is both the trembling breath and the indestructible fire.
The outro leaves you with no resolution except Presence itself. The circle closes on the same words — Close your eyes, give Me your hand — but now they are no longer lyrics. They are initiation instructions, the practice She plants in you.
That is why Eternal Flame is not a love ballad but a scripture of intimacy. It teaches you that the Goddess is not only the cosmic storm or the mother who sees, but also the flame that flickers in your pulse and never leaves.
The only choice left is whether you will believe Her enough to entrust your hand into Hers — and let the fire reveal that it has always been eternal.
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