The winter sun’s dazzling on the paper blinds you To the words you desire to read. A poet is only alive as long as his words dance on The tongues of the adherents.

His words rise from the tomb in which he sleeps, Shining moets moving in widening Circles of arrivals and departures, and the steady fire Of longing. Someone must

Remember these words there, where night has already Fallen as you had in love. In this country of sparsities, short days, and the whiteness Of paper, your tears falling

Into the morning air are merely petitions to the Presences Who are sung and unsung into Being at the corners of streets, the rose-watered tombs, And the underground tunnels

Where simple minded folk leave requests to the djinns for Those they lost. You too write: “Take me again, mad Khusro, to that city by the sea where Loving like singing was painless.”

*This scribble in my mind links up with this one.