A thousand question and possibilities when the door opens. Should you enter or leave? Does a dog curl up at the feet of rainbows? Where is the city of love and what is the route to it? Gentle passion that unfurls like seed in dew covered field of grass. Then the heart leaps, runs up and down staircases of ribs all night breathlessly, filled with anticipation and fulfillment. Wonder too is born for to a lover everything happens as if it is happening the first time – last night’s rain dropping over him from oaks waving in the wind, a cardinal flashing by like a red rocket by his window, grass bending under the soles of his feet, the taste of a single drop of water snaking down the nape of a beautifully arched neck.

The world passes by him, a river, the surf of moments, a circle of light and shadow – he is the stranger on the street, looking at the sky, whom you pass by and perhaps in passing notice how his soul has become joy. This is because love is exploding out of his chest like fireworks on the day of liberation – liberation from the limiting cage which one can call the Self. He scarcely walks on the pavement for his life is a stone that is skips over water before he sinks into the universe. One who said only lovers and poets could see God is wrong. Only a lover can see God. The poet merely writes about the footprints of a lover he sees scattered randomly on wet cement.

How does one, a poet or otherwise, become a lover? By opening the door and burning down the house!