Mevlana, I wish that I could offer
birthday greetings,
but you have not been born
until now, and your death
already sparkles in these
Autumn raindrops.
Were you ever not here?
We met on that endless journey
into stillness.
Every atom of my flesh an oasis,
every atom of yours a well.
When we gaze at each other
we cannot speak, our mouths
are the same sky.
Even now we have hearts that
break with one sound,
the scratch of brittle leaves
against prison windows,
the terrible bars of bone
imperceptibly ringing
with sweet songs of exile.
O but elm-like had we not
grown old in these bodies,
what sap could seep through
our cracked and jagged limbs?
A flute makes music because
it was torn from a living branch
with seven wounds left open
to bleed poems.
I will say it anyway, Jalaladin,
so that we can play this tragic
comedy for two:
you and me, past and future,
two eyes, two lips, two hands,
two natures just like Jesus,
human and divine.
Two nostrils for one breath,
the inward and outward in a single
famished rib cage.
I wish you Happy Birthday,
old friend!
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