Words are rolling stones
that clatter in the stream of time.
Any of we, parched or quenched,
sip at the waters edge and listen to them
purling and purling, sublime
till their edges rounded by translation
turn rock to sand, like grape to wine.
Precise words of ancient mystics
passing over falls and out to sea
Who can ever say anything for sure
about a mystic, who himself says,
who is He
“who says words with my mouth.” (Rumi)
Let’s never lose sight of the poetry
through the veil of a poem that’s so pronounced.
Maulana is a single breeze
Carrying a multitude of scents
Sensual words are metaphors for meaning
that are they, themselves,
metaphors for sensuality
Names within names
for a singularity.
There is only one pure text…
and each of us individually hears its truth.
It is written on the walls of the heart
In strokes of blood, there in the dark,
Its mystery, being its only proof.
