The last kiss
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If you could hold and kiss
One last time
Hold and kiss
If you could hold and kiss
your beloved
One last time
Before that final fall of night
Wayfarer
Hold and kiss
existence
Like that
Wrecked
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I am a shipwreck
Driftwood that floats close
Identity
Seafoam
Look at me
I am a shipwreck
A toy of the Sea
Driftwood that floats close
Resembles vaguely
What I used to be
Identity
A wave gone rogue
Seafoam
Aiming to join the stars
Look at me
Love me
Play with me
Whole
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If I could, I would
But I can’t
You are
If I could, I would
The Sun told the moon
“Pour more love into your soul”
But I can’t
There’s no more room
You are
Already whole
Polishing the mirror
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When Abu Bakr met Muhammad, he said,
“This is not a face that lies.”
Abu Bakr was one whose bowl has fallen from the roof.
There’s no hiding the fragrance that comes from an ecstatic.
A polished mirror cannot help reflecting.
Muhammad once was talking to a crowd of chieftains,
princes with great influence,
when a poor blind man interrupted him.
Muhammad frowned and said to the man,
“Let me attend to these visitors.
This is a rare chance, whereas you are already my friend.
We’ll have ample time.”
Then someone nearby said,
“That blind man may be worth a hundred kings.
Remember the proverb,
Human beings are mines.”
World-power means nothing.
Only the unsayable, jeweled inner life matters.
Muhammad replied,
“Do not think that I’m concerned
with being acknowledged by these authorities.
If a beetle moves toward rosewater,
it proves that the solution is diluted.
Beetles love dung, not rose essence.
If a coin is eager to be tested by the touchstone,
that coin itself may be a touchstone.
A thief loves the night.
I am day.
I reveal essences.
A calf thinks God is a cow.
A donkey’s theology changes when someone new pets it
and gives what it wants.
I am not a cow,
or thistles for camels to browse on.
People who insult me are only polishing the mirror.”
Talking through the door
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“What do you want from me?”
“Where have you been most comfortable?”
“Where can you live safely then?”
You said, “Who’s at the door?”
I said, “Your slave.”
You said, “What do you want?”
“To see you and bow.”
“How long will you wait?”
“Until you call.”
“How long will you cook?”
“Till the Resurrection.”
We talked through the door.
I claimed a great love and that I had given up
what the world gives to be in that love.
You said, “Such claims require a witness.”
I said, “This longing, these tears.”
You said, “Discredited witnesses.”
I said, “Surely not!”
You said, “Who did you come with?”
“The majestic imagination you gave me.”
“Why did you come?”
“The musk of your wine was in the air.”
“What is your intention?”
“Friendship.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Grace.”
Then you asked,
“Where have you been most comfortable?”
“In the palace.”
“What did you see there?”
“Amazing things.”
“Then why is it so desolate?”
“Because all that can be taken away in a second.”
“Who can do that?”
“This clear discernment.”
“Where can you live safely then?”
“In surrender.”
“What is this giving up?”
“A peace that saves us.”
“Is there no threat of disaster?”
“Only what comes in your street, inside your love.”
“How do you walk there?”
“In perfection.”
Now silence.
If I told more of this conversation,
those listening would leave themselves.
There would be no door, no roof or window either!
Talking in the night
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just as the beautiful inhabitants of Chigil in Turkestan
In the middle of the night, I cried out,
“Who lives in this love I have?”
You said, “I do, but I’m not here alone.
Why are these other images with me?”
I said, “They are reflections of you,
just as the beautiful inhabitants of Chigil in Turkestan
resemble each other.”
You said, “But who is this other living being?”
“That is my wounded soul.”
Then I brought that soul to you as a prisoner.
“This one is dangerous,” I said.
“Don’t let him off easy.”
You winked and gave me one end of a delicate thread.
“Pull it tight, but don’t break it.”
I reached my hand to touch you.
You struck it down.
“Why are you so harsh with me?”
“For good reason. But certainly not to keep you away!
Whoever enters this place saying
Here I am
must be slapped.
This is not a pen for sheep.
There are no separating distances here.
This is love’s sanctuary.
Saladin is how the soul looks.
Rub your eyes, and look again with love at love.”
The birds question the hoopoe and he advises them
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An ancient secret yielded to the birds
Their kinship with the Simorgh was now plain
‘A lover’, said the hoopoe, now their guide,
Then the fierce fortitude the Way will ask
An ancient secret yielded to the birds
When they had understood the hoopoe’s words –
Their kinship with the Simorgh was now plain
And all were eager to set off again.
The homily returned them to the Way
and with one voice the birds were heard to say:‘
“Tell us, dear hoopoe, how we should proceed –
Our weakness quails before this glorious deed.’
‘A lover’, said the hoopoe, now their guide,
‘Is one in whom all thoughts of Self have died;
Those who renounce the Self deserve that name;
Righteous or sinful, they are all the same!
Your heart is thwarted by the Self’s control;
Destroy its hold on you and reach your goal.
Give up this hindrance, give up mortal sight,
For only then can you approach the light.
If you are told: “Renounce our Faith”, obey!
The Self and Faith must both be tossed away;
Blasphemers call such action blasphemy –
Tell them that love exceeds mere piety.
Love has no time for blasphemy or faith,
Nor lovers for the Self, that feeble wraith.
They burn all that they own; unmoved they feel
Against their skin the torturer’s sharp steel.
Heart’s blood and bitter pain belong to love,
And tales of problems no one can remove;
Cupbearer, fill the bowl with blood, not wine –
And if you lack the heart’s rich blood take mine.
Love thrives on inextinguishable pain,
Which tears the soul, then knits the threads again.
A mote of love exceeds all bounds; it gives
The vital essence to whatever lives.
But where love thrives, there pain is always found;
Angels alone escape this weary round
They love without that savage agony
Which is reserved for vexed humanity.
Islam and blasphemy have both been passed
By those who set out on love’s path at last;
Love will direct you to Dame Poverty,
And she will show the way to Blasphemy.
When neither Blasphemy nor Faith remain,
The body and the Self have both been slain;
Then the fierce fortitude the Way will ask
Is yours, and you are worthy of our task.
Begin the journey without fear; be calm;
Forget what is and what is not Islam;
Put childish dread aside –
like heroes meet
The hundred problems which you must defeat.
The wolf’s pride
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