“A Ripe Fig” (Rumi)

Now that you live in my chest

anywhere we sit is a mountaintop.

Those other images, which entice people like porcelain dolls from China, which have made men and women weep for centuries, even those are changing now.

What used to be pain is now a lovely bench, where we rest under the roses.

A left hand has become a right. A dark wall, a window. A cushion in a shoe heel, the leader of the assembly.

Intelligence and silence. What we say is poison to some, and nourishing to others.

What we say is a ripe fig, but not all birds that fly eat figs.

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