23/04/2023
No Room for Form.
By Rumi
On the night when you cross the street
from your shop and your house to the cemetery,
you’ll hear me hailing you from inside the open grave,
and you’ll realize how we’ve always been together.
I am the clear consciousness-core of your being,
the same in ecstasy as in self-hating fatigue.
That night, when you escape the fear of snakebite
and all irritation with the ants,
you’ll hear my familiar voice, see the candle being lit,
smell the incense, the surprise meal fixed
by the lover inside all your other lovers.
This heart-tumult is my signal to you igniting in the tomb.
So don’t fuss with the shroud and the graveyard road dust.
Those get ripped open and washed away
in the music of our finally meeting.
And don’t look for me in a human shape.
I am inside your looking.
No room for form with love this strong.
Beat the drum and let the poets speak.
This is a day of purification for those who
are already mature and initiated into what love is.
No need to wait until we die!
There’s more to want here than money
and being famous and bites of roasted meat.
Now, what shall we call this new sort of gazing-house
that has opened in our town
where people sit quietly and pour out their glancing
like light, like answering?
