Send
not Gad the Prophet with three options; for the seasons churn, storming
through
winters.
I
died an empire, semi-aloof, cringing for tov
(good). I knew for lev (heart), shooting through canons,
even a gray sky. You give so much,
and die such grief, shielding a self; and others—to die a lecture, and training
papers, pulled through every thread. I
love us like rain: to know for grains: to grow through turmoil. Its vajrayana
(thunderbolt path), centered in
flames, to perish for answers; for rites are motions, striving through dhyana (meditation), for gold a first
professor. If only to merge, if once
again, as through mystic kinship; for it lived, where something died, ever to
resurrect. I know for love, a never
could be, to soar through ritual; and was it soul, to awaken prayer, stressing
on a sapa (sofa)? I ask—to swirl for answers, graphed in a
mystery. I see through seconds, an asur (forbidden) wisdom, embodied in a life; and oh for raying eyes, a satchel in a
mystic; for words are subtle, to read for gesture, a mixture unborn.
I
come to you, asearch for kef, stranded at a garden; and thought it not, where a
voice summons, as cold as intervention; but more compassion, to ‘suade for
righteous, a night for shivers. I
keep a swan, nestled in lev, to
stream a beating drum; for life is turned, a reality grim, and at times quite
lovely. What for paradox, to love a shiksa (a gentile woman), a metaphor for
opposites. We fever through hyssop,
engulfing medicine, for something’s askew; where tears shed, the dread of
Valentine’s, a simile for despair. I love
us like breath, endemic of life, gnawing on the white host; for more the
Eucharist, to break for boulders, striking up pyramids; and trekking prana (energy), to thirst her eyes,
writing a first paper. Such is yama (self-control), to yearn for satsang (good company), knitting shraddha (faith). I finish in kamayati (love), quasi-filled, drilling through tornados.
