Here is where you live. Come inside. Touch what is not, and then this is.
Raise dust in both worlds. Then the going goes the same: pain, difficulty, peace, pleasure.
But you are beyond those four, beyond the winding way.
Old as what has no starting out, yet freshly begun, wound and salve for the dervish.
All religions bow to you at the sky’s table, where the sun sits down just as the moon leaves.
But at the autumn feast of Shams’s love
you will not be chosen for sacrifice.
You are too lean a lamb for that.
Adam A. Azim 