“Christian, Jew, Muslim, Shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged”― Jalal ad-Din Rumi

 

Like imagination is to the poet
This, this, is in the centre of my heart.
You bathe my wounds with words, ointment, kisses
You have the key to the door that is always closed
You want me to stick to simple stories but I cannot
It is not fair to God. You show me a bridge, the bridge
Over the vortex of doubt: the bridge of sighs,
You are dumb in the sun.
The river passed into dawn when I took your hair shade
To accompany me to war - I was tired and broken
I do not want to die at night
I prefer to drink wine and think

Do not forget the resurrection of the heart.
You broke from your mother's  shelter
Until death.
Now, this solitary stranger is too tired to think.
So, dukkha-taṇhā:
Suffering and desire
Twist the unbidden tears:
Pumping hearts, shaking hands
Human life conducted in the dark
The hidden fears
The inconsolable grief
Many fear-filled years.
Craving permanence
The enduring stillness
Of the Sea of Galilee.
But let’s walk instead
To the tomb of Maimonides:
Oh! Why do the wicked prosper?
Why oh! why do the righteous die?
Answer came there none –
Except the Song of Solomon –
The season of singing has begun.
Gehinnom, citadel of souls,
Shines behind the sun,
We do not know of the world to come,
Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed
Taught us not to ask for whom the bell tolls
For it tolls for me….