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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.”
