Wednesday, 25 May 2011

What I want is
to see your face in a tree,
In the sun coming out,
in the air.

What I want is
to hear the falcon drum,
And light again on your forearm.

You say,
tell him I’m not here.
The sound of that brusque dismissal becomes what I want.

To see in every palm
your elegant silver coin shavings,
To turn with the wheel of the rain,
To fall with the falling breath of every experience,
To swim like a huge fish in ocean water,
To be Jacob recognizing Joseph,
To be a desert mountain instead of a city,
I’m tired of cowards, I want to live with lions,
with Moses, not whining teary people.
I want the ranting of drunkards,
I want to sing like birds sing,
Not worrying who hears or what they think.
Last night a great teacher went from door to door
With a lamp,
He who is not to be found
Is the one I’m looking for.
Beyond wanting, beyond place, inside form, that one.
A flute says I have no hope for finding that, but Love
Love plays and plays, and is the music played.
Let that musician finish this poem,
Shams, I am a waterbird, flying into your sun.

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