Friday, August 13, 2010

The Circle

Nothing is better than selling figs
to the fig seller. That's how this is.

Making a profit is not why we're here,
nor pleasure, nor even joy.

When someone is a goldsmith,
wherever he goes he asks for the goldsmith.

Wheat stays wheat right through the threshing.

How would the soul feel
in the beloved's river?

Like fish washed free and clear of fear.

You drive us away,
but we return like pigeons.

Shahabuddin Osmond joins the circle.
We will say this poem again
so he can play.

There is no end to anything round.

No comments: