Advice does not help lovers. They are not the kind of mountain stream
that you can build a dam across.
An intellectual does not know what the drunk is feeling. Do not try to figure what those lost inside love will do next.
Someone in charge would give up all his power, if he caught one whiff of the wine musk
from the room where the lovers are doing who knows what.
One of them tries to dig a hole through a mountain. One flees from academic honors. One laughs at famous mustaches.
Life freezes if it does not get a taste of this almond cake.
The stars come up spinning every night, bewildered in love. They would grow tired with that revolving if they weren’t.
They would say, How long do we have to do this?
God picks up the reed-flute world and blows. Each note is a need coming through one of us, a passion, a longing pain.
Remember the lips where the breath originated, and let your note be clear.
Do not try to end it. Be your note.
I will show you how that is enough. Go up on the roof at night in this city of the soul.
Let everyone climb on their roofs
and sing their notes. Sing loud.