When love itself comes to kiss you,
don't hold back! When the king
goes hunting, the forest smiles.
Now the king has become the place
and all the players, prey, bystander,
bow, arrow, hand and release. How
does that feel? Last night's dream
enters these open eyes. When we die
and turn to dust, each particle will
be the whole. You hear a mote whirl
taking form? My music. Love, calm,
patient. The Friend has waded down
into existence, gotten stuck, and
will not be seen again outside of
this. We sometimes make spiderwebs
of smoke and salvia, fragile thought
packets. Leave thinking to the one
who gave intelligence. In silence
there is eloquence. Stop weaving
and watch how the pattern improves.
Rumi
Ghazal (Ode) 922
