This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


“Wish for death, if ye are men of truth.” — Qur’an 2:94, 62:6

We died again last night,
here, where I sit right now
still breathing,
come back from the hereafter,
before what you and I shared,
becoming I and you
in this being of ours,
where all is fiction, all is lie
that leads the ignorant,
the unbelieving, beyond belief.

The sanctum is empty,
every idol smashed and us,
scattered by True Voice and given
just one injunction:
follow that old aria you so disliked
before you came to love me,
follow the melody that molds
what cannot be known
and kneads it into us,
works out all the air
so that we can rise in rhythm
and return through the endless forest
to that simple clearing,
created just for us,
the soft grass where you’ll find me
growing, waiting with gratitude
to carry you wherever we must walk,
through the green woods and wonder,
our words but branches which brace us,
bind us, bid you set me free,
having found what is beyond beyond,
what gives even time its authority,
after the never-ending ages,
to arrive, and arriving feast
on all the old photographs
they left hanging on the walls
without knowing what it was
that is really worth


The wise

Go way down

To how this grace thing works