|When the friend opens the door and says,|
You are here, please come in.
It is such a pleasure to give up talking
and listen to his long story
about Khidr, the guide of souls.
A tailor cuts cloth uniquely for each person.
Springs open in the centre of the lake.
Trees move in the breeze that comes before dawn.
A nightingale sits in the rosebush and asks,
Who do you love? tell me.
No one else is here.
The rose, so long as you are you,
I cannot, This is the passionate demand,
the one the burning bush made of Moses.
I am a sacred pool. Take off your shoes.
Wade in. You are the essence
of place and placelessness, honoured one.
Take my hand.
The needle's eye will not accept
a strand of thread that is folded double.
So it is with you.
You find yourself holding the royal bowl
and welcoming all to the banquet.
The sun stands in fire up to it's chin
so we may have daylight.
When you take the hand of someone you love,
what happens to your hands?
Your darling comes, and you ask,
How can I help? Come here.
Reason wonders, Should I go?
And your loving, Should I run?
The one you love signals,
Yes. I want both of you.
The table is there. Sit down.
Choose the bright company.
Do not worry about food.
Now I pass to you this silence,
so that the alternations of night and day
with their flaming language
may finish the story.
from Bridge to the Soul,
translated by Coleman Barks.
Art by dorina costras