A moth flying into the flame
says with its wingfire, Try this.
The wick with its knotted neck broken
tells you the same. A candle as it diminishes explains,
Gathering more and more is not the way.
Burn, become light and heat and help. Melt.
The ocean sits in the sand letting its lap
fill with pearls and shells, then empty.
A bittersalt taste hums, This.
The rose purifies its face, drops the soft petals,
shows its thorn, and points.
Wine abandons thousands of famous names,
the vintage years and delightful bouquets,
to run wild and anonymous through your brain.
The flute closes its eyes and gives its lips
to Hamza's emptiness.
Everything begs with the silent rocks
for you to be flung out like light
over this plain, the presence of Shams.
