You that add soul to my soul, who hear my night grief, timely, unlikely fire in every grain of my being, mountain sound harmonizing with my song, magnet for form, you have none.
With your joy I live my entire life in a small valley. Without you, every natural pleasure, of tasting, of being outdoors, becomes a heavy hobble tied to my feet. I untie it and see that it is immediately there again.
Tonight is a night
when grace gives me a love book to read.
I empty out whatever blocks a clear note. Not a food sack, I am a reed flute. There is no cure for this soul but you, Averroës.
Adam A. Azim 