Hope
Allah
Graces
Your
Life
With
A shower
Of happiness

The autumn wind
Is a raider
Of hue
And beauty
from flowers

Kindness
Is
A
Language
In
Which
The
Deaf
Can
Hear
And
The
blind
Can
See

I am not an entity
In this world
Or in the next
I did not descend
From Adam and Eve
Or any origin story
My place is Placeless
A trace of the traceless




Rumi,,,

βλέπω*

Hope flickers in gathering darkness.
War, sickness, death, poverty, loss:
we must suffer them all again.
The dark heart of being
wears the weary soul.
The common world of pain,
a place we all know best.
Yet even as night falls,
a new morning of light beckons.
Hope flickers but does not falter.

On new year eve when the sun on the west hung low
And the east wind on dead leaves blow
I paced to the yellow woods
And sat on my favourite wood
Where not long after I fell into a trance
Not of any divine trace
But a dream from my person
And I saw a vision backwards:
365 days ago, not long ago
I was on the same spot
For the familiar new year ritual
That of writing my aspirations
My fickle fingers wrote my dreams on the hard earth
On the passing sands of time
But no traces of them was left
Perchance carried by the furious wind
To the store house of wasted words
I continued in the vision backwards
When I heard a voice from me saying
" Don't write your dreams on sand
Write them on your heart "
I woke from my short trance
When the crimson moon was awake above
And the night owl hooting echoed through the woods
Left the woods without performing my ritual
Because i heard a vision backwards
" Don't write your dreams on sand
Write them on your heart."

Dear John:*
Do you?
     *I do.
     I did.
     I'm done.
     Overdone.
     Undone. Metaphysically strained.
     And I need a thermometer to check my rarity.
     I'm developing a crispness
     And drying out, in want of basting.
     I'm done, John.

Sincerely,
Mary Donne