EVENING SKY GARNET RED
Morning opens a door with help for
those who don't ask for any. Love
tears its shirt. Mind begins the
sewing repair. You come and both
run off. I burn like aloe wood to
touch the one who set this. Dressed
sometimes like disaster, sometimes
like a guide, the ox of the self
sweetens his mouth in a pasture. A
parrot falls in love with an Arabian
colt. Fish want linen shirts. The
drunken lion hunts drunken gazelles.
It cannot be said how you take form.
One man asks for spoiled cheese.
The prayer rugs all point different
ways. If you would soak again the
evening sky your garnet red, the
qibla tips would turn that way.
(from The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems trans. Coleman Barks)