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“If the eight Paradises were opened in my hut,
and the rule of both worlds were given in my hands,
I would not give for them that single sigh which rises
at morning-time from the depth of my soul
in remembering my longing for Him.” — Bâyezîd Bistâmî

This reed ripped from its bed and reduced
to mere vibration by virtue
of the hollowness that runs through it
still revels in a breath that brings forth
its specific pitch of suffering,
still sings of how sorrow is only to
forget the pain of separation.

Give us the longing
sound of a full sea
lit by a full moon’s reflected road;
the yearning of endless waves
which repeat the rhythm they know,
deep down, must return them;
and we will show you a celebration
of that which goes on forever,
seeing with both eyes at once.

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