Searching for You

The poems I write to you
escape from my books
and go searching for you;
they become birds in the forests,
clouds sweeping
over the mountains and fields,
they become stars in the nightsky
and whiffs of summer flowers
enamored with the air.

They go searching for you
and find you everywhere,
they blend themselves with nature
to always stay with you
and so fire up my heart
with the knowledge of why
the whirling dervish turns —
he turns because of you, beloved,
who are all around, at all times, everywhere;
everywhere, through you,
the world’s axis turns,
you, the divine contradiction of love.

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The Ash of Your Longing

I only have eyes to see your form,
ears to hear your voice,
nose to smell your fragrance,
skin to touch your body,
and tongue to utter your name –
my being, whatever it is,
is a hymn to your existence,
and the firebird
which entered my veins
as your lips brushed my palm
has now set my body ablaze
and consumed me whole.
I am the ash of your longing.

A Little Rest and Idleness

A little rest and idleness
and I discover
that I am still the same man,
the one who writes
and longs to write
with the fire of your name
a world of poetry.

Now let each word sink
like a caress into your skin,
let it sleep there
like an exuberant seed
to wake up and find itself transformed
into a lush forest of flowers
and leaves blowing endlessly,
of lovers meeting
under the shadow of the night
to make love deeply and earnestly.

A little rest
and my heart rises back, buoyant,
and wafts mouthful
in the fragrance of your skin,
my feet, those of a pilgrim
wading word after word after word
to vanish in the world of stillness
sounding at the center of your soul.

A little rest and idleness
and your breath, beloved,
comes to cure me,
balm my wounds and nights of ache
with the refreshing touch of dew
born upon the dawn of your lips.

You, Beloved

You
who lives inside of me
though I keep looking for you
in the outer world;
you
whose fire immolates my heart
without completely killing it,
threading it, instead,
thin and empty
like the rose of the sky;
you
who loved me
before I had a name,
before my parents bore me;
you
who will subsume my being
as I surrender my breath and die;
you, beloved,
crushing me with longing
and making sure
that I won’t survive
unless I become a thread
in the book of love.

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas
et pourtant je ne peux abandonner
ma recherche pour elle ;
et ça, cette recherche,
ce pèlerinage infini
qui va comme un cercle
tournant et tournant
au milieu du cœur de l’amour –
cette brulure, ce délire,
cette espérance futile mais inépuisable –
c’est le poème –
l’offrande de mon âme
dans le feu de son autel.

Du poème je suis…

Du poème
je suis ce qui lutte
à te toucher,
cette lumière
qui approfondit sa pureté
dans son désir
à fleurir dans ta peau ;
du poème
je suis ce silence
qui écoute
ton cœur battre
dans la chair du monde,
je suis cette voix
qui s’est perdue dans le vent
il y a des siècles
et qui cherche à jamais
à se dissoudre
dans l’intime de ton souffle.

Du poème
je suis cette attente
qui déchire mon cœur
et le remplit du silence
de ta voix.