The teabag has broken.
How will the scattered bits
of leaves ever be returned to the bag?
After I let You into my heart, You produced a key
to long-locked door. It
led to a cellar filled with wine.
O Lord, those are my teardrops on those dusty bottles!
My tongue is too drunk to speak properly
but I will moan for You.
Moonlight pours through a small window just above the
street.
Let’s drink to Hafiz – to his outrageous love.
And what of Rumi – his poetic, methodical breaking down
of the barriers between lover and God.
O Beloved, my heart seems so spacious when You are there,
sweeping through the house in Your flowing gown;
Your arms fluid and graceful, Your birdlike hands
making gestures for love, grace, forgiveness, mercy.
On Your head, Your hands form a crown – the gesture for a
king.
You are the King of my heart, establish Your throne there.
O child of God, prepare your heart for the day
King Meher arrives in full regalia never again to
leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment