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

Upapa Africana

“Once on a time from all the Circles seven
Between the stedfast Earth and rolling Heaven
The birds […]
Flock’d from all Quarters into full Divan” — Farīd ud-Dīn ʿAṭṭār

What a way I had to wander
to walk back into this memory of you,
the elect of so many years ago
between singing starlings
and dancing turtle doves; the masked weavers
calling to their little brown cousins
we never could quite name correctly;
even that spotted eagle owl
cast in concrete, still chanting huuu,
knows too what it means that you
were there, willing us on.

The picture of patience as your parliament
sang just to bless the morning,
pulling from their performance
the one sliver of sincerity you still seek,
searching this old palm tree stripped
by thoughtless drought,
dancing in your orange-black-and-white
all the way to its top so you might tell truth:

“This whole metaphor is just a mirror.
Even the music is just a mirror.

You are the word that is with God,
so make of it
what has always been willed.”


The Parliament

In a Walled Garden

Is free now