On the string spun from grief and pain,
I threaded blossoms; drawn from your memory.
And I plucked,
From the desert of abandoned love,
Buds which bloomed; when we were together.
I placed on your doorsteps,
Offering to the days of your memory.
Side by side, in the vase called Desire,
The ashes of separation, the blossoms from our love.
Love doesn’t desire anything, nor it makes you do things, its something living inside you and it has it’s own desire, the desire to fulfill itself, to be like a river that flows and flows, and never thinks or breaks it’s course of flow.
It doesn’t matter what origin you belong, Love exists beyond religion, culture, age or race, it exists beyond humanity, it can belong to what sufis call Mahabba, the supreme of all types of Love.
“My dear one, thou thyself art love, art lover, and thyself art the beloved whom thou hast adored.” – Hazrat Shah Inayat Khan (The Dance of the Soul)
- Love dawns slowly. (yessicadaedalus.wordpress.com)
- Poetry in Translation: Agha Shahid Ali and I do two couplets by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (3quarksdaily.com)