I don’t want to write a ghazal.
You wouldn’t either with a brain as messed up as mine.
I have forgotten how I wrote them before
And now I can’t fathom instructions.
I’ll tie Celtic knots with Italian spaghetti.
with no sign of Persian delights
or patterns of beauty and promise.
Love is all a repetition of form and illusion.
We fly or we fall as we scribble old thoughts on our walls.
When happiness eludes us in the dark,
dying in the wane, forsake not the moon
It will wax again, shine its silver light,
the turning tide will ache. Not the moon.
When spring is young and full of love, the sun
brings pleasure, gladdens day, wake not the moon.
The morning chorus brings us new born day.
Birdsong floats above the lake. Not the moon.
It is dawn above the soft horizon
that will our tenderness untimely break. Not the moon.
When Venus orbits high above, my love is in
my arms again, the night, delight, take not the moon!
The Dreaming Path 