I'm thinking with my intellect I am unable
to know as well as the heart. The Moon's a cup
to the Sun's prolific light, the earth wobbles
in its eccentric orbit and turns like the verse
of Faiz in an other language. She has a noble
and virtuous disposition, she smells of lilacs
and roses, of rhymes and meter. Among the rumble
of ruined houses and prior forms I'm whispering
perennial mysteries. She is the immeasurable
essence that understands words, the ineffable
nothing that discloses me. I'm becoming humble
in her irrational light, the madness of moving
has made me incapable of all but love.
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