Be the moon with no mantilla,
the sky without a cloud,
the blues that stain a lover's thoughts.
Be a naked mirror wearing
your hijab of reflections,
yet keeping the secret unstained.
Savor melting gossamer illusions
of the wound around your heart,
expanding the sweetness of
irremediable loss by refusing
to tell a story about it.
Rest in the catastrophe,
reposing like a burnt lamb
on the lapis alter of your breastbone.
Let others make the haj.
Your task is being more hollow.
A mind that no longer seeks
is a scintillating jewel
in the erotic splendor of the void.
To the cup it feels like something that pours,
to the wine, like stillness.
Did no one teach you to die with every breath?
Grace is an eternal withering
and turning gold.
Fear was for another life,
this one is for wonder.
Now what shall you wear to the wedding?
Just this golden veil of joy
with no one inside.
Painting by Marc Chagall
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