I am beyond Oblivion

I am beyond Oblivion

If you are coming to me,
I am beyond Oblivion.
Beyond Oblivion is a place
Where dandelions run into the veins of air,
Bringing news of a faraway blooming bush.
The sands bear the footprints of delicate horsemen
Mounting the hilltop of poppies.
Beyond Oblivion, the umbrella of desire is open.
As soon as thirst blows onto the root of a leaf
Rain sings songs of freshness.
One is lonely here.
Where an elm's shadow streams into eternity.

If you are coming to me
Approach gently, softly lest you crack
The fragile china of my solitude!

The Surah of Observation

I swear by observation!
And by the beginning of word!
And by the flight of pigeon from the mind!
A word is encaged.
My words were clear as a patch of meadow.

I told them:
"There is a sun at your threshold
Which will shine over your behaviour if you open the door."

And I told them:
"Rocks are not the mountain's ornaments"
Nor is metal an adornment on the body of a pickaxe.
In the palm of the earth lies an invisible gem,
Dazzling all prophets with its shining.
Set off in quest of the gem.
Carry Moments to the Pasture of Prophecy.
I gave them the glad tidings of the coming messenger
Of the approaching day, of the increasing colours
And of the echo of the Red Rose beyond the Hedge of Harsh Words."

And I told them:
"He who sees a garden in the memory of wood
His face will forever be caressed by eternal love."
He who befriends the birds in the sky
His will be the most peaceful sleep in the world.
He who plucks light from the fingertips of Time
Can open the windows with a sigh.
We were under a willow tree.
Plucking a leaf from the branch above my head, I said:
"Open your eyes. What better sign do you seek than this?"
I heard them whisper to each other:
"Magic he know, magic!"
on each mountaintop, they met a prophet.
Shouldering Clouds of Denial.
To take their hats off.
Their houses overflowed with chrysanthemums,
We shut their eyes.
We did not let their arms reach the twig of talent.
We filled their pockets with habit.
And disturbed their sleep with the sound of mirrors' journey.

Over The Eyelids of Night

It was a flowing night
From beneath the spruce trees
the stream was flowing to far beyond.
The moonlight was illuminating the valley
And the mountain so bright that God could be seen.
We were on the heights.
Far beyond , invisible; surfaces, washed
And glance , more amorous than ever before.
You handed me the green stalk of a message
And your breath quietly cracked
The Terracotta of Familiarity.
Our hearbeats pouring down the rocks
From an old wine , the summer's sands flowing in veins
And the Moonlight enamelling your behaviour
You were wonderful , free , and down-to-earth.
The Green Fortune of Life mingled
With the cool mountain air.
Shadows returned
And pennyroyals danced
With the breeze
And ecstasies mingled together.

Wall

The wound of night was turning pale
In the desert that I was marching,
Neither a bird’s wing disturbed the clear air
Nor the sound of my footsteps like other nights
Added to the sound of my former steps
To raise a solid and firm wall around me
I brought from distance, rocks solid and heavy, bare footed.
I built a lofty wall in that place
To hide everything that to my eye was base
And to shut the passage to attacking giants
That in my mind I had visualized
Days and nights rolled on.
I was stalled exhausted by my labor,
Neither regret kindled the fire of sweet hope in my veins
Nor my bygone recollections bothered me.
But behind the wall my fancy
Was building dark images of giants.
And in smoke color
He designed outlines of devil
Until one night like other silent nights,
The whole wall crumbled down
And my regret was mixed with surprise

An Episode

The sea does roar
Nobody is visible near the shore,
No speck you can see over the dark see
To presume it is a boat
Approaching the shore
A boat has survived near the shore
Night covering its head,
Its body from a dark path
Immersed in to the bitter perception.
Nobody is there to come
And cast the boat in the sea
And at a moment when every high wave
Speaks to the hidden ear
A disturbed wave arrives to tell
The story of a stormy night
That night the fisherman had gone
To fish from the sea
And dig out that which he
Had dreamed in his fancy.
Next morning when no wave
Jolted with another wave on the sea,
The fisher’s eye could see
A boat on the water in whose mouth
There was the news of accident of the day before.
Then they pulled the boat to the sleepy shore,
Where it is now lying.
And at this very sad moment
Near the boat
The sea is boiling
And wave arrives from distance to speak again
Of a stormy night,
But the story is brief.

The Animate Word Of Life

Behind the pinery, the snow.
The snow, a swarm of crows.
The road means nostalgia.
The wind, the song, the traveller and a slight inclination to sleep.
The ivy's crest, the arrival, and the yard.
I, and nostalgia, and this wet glass.
I write, and the space.
I write, and two walls, and a few sparrows.
Someone is grieving.
Someone is weaving.
Someone is counting.
Someone is singing.
Life means: a starling flew away.
What made you gloomy?
Consolations are not few. For instance, this sun,
Tomorrow's babes, last week's pigeon.
Someone died last night.
And wheat bread is still fine.
And water is still pouring down. Horses are drinking.
Drops are falling.
Snow weighs on the Shoulders of Silence.
And Time on the Spine of the Lilac

The Fine Night Of Solitude

Listen! The remotest bird is warbling.
Night is fluent, pure and open.
The cranesbills
And the most sonorous bough listen to the moon.
The stairs in front of the building
The door holding a lantern
And the breeze galore.
Listen! The road is calling you from afar.
Your eyes are not the Decoration of Darkness.
Shake your eyelids, put on your shoes and come along.
And come where the plume of the moon warns your finger
Where Time sits with you on a cold
And the nocturnal psalters absorb your limbs like a ballad.
There lives a hermit who will say onto you:
"The best is to attain an eye wet with the incident of love".

Plain Colour

The sky, bluer
The water, bluer
I am on the veranda. Ra'na is by the pool.
She is washing clothes.
Leaves are falling.
"It's a sad season," said Mother this morning.
"Life is an apple," said I, "One should bite it unpeeled."
The next-door woman is weaving nets at her window, Humming to herself.
I am reading the Vedas,
Making sketches of rocks, fowls, and clouds.
A full sunshine.
Starlings are coming.
Nasturtiums are blossoming.
I crack a pomegranate, thinking to myself:
"If only the seeds of people's hearts could be seen!"
The pomegranate juice spurts into my eye: my tears flow.
Mother bursts into laughter.
So does Ra'na.

Light, I, Flower, Water

There is no cloud.
There is no wind.
I perch by the pond.
The fish swimming about, light, I, flower, and water.
The pure grapes of life.
Mother is picking basils.
Bread, basils and cheese, a cloudless sky some wet petunias.
Salvation is nearby, amidst the courtyard flowers.
Such caresses light pours into the copper bowl!
From up the high wall, the ladder brings Dawn down to earth.
Everything is hidden behind a smile.
There is a crevice in the wall of Time through which my visage is visible.
There is a lot that I don't know.
I know if I pick a plant I will die.
I fly up to the peak, I am full of wings.
I can find my way out in the dark, I am full of lanterns.
I am full of light, of sands
And of shrubs and trees.
I am full of paths, of bridges, of rivers, and of waves.
I am full of a leaf's reflection in water.
How infinite my loneliness is!