THE STRONGER PULL OF WHAT YOU REALLY LOVE

You miss the garden,

because you want a small fig from a random tree.  

You don’t meet the beautiful woman.  

You’re joking with an old crone.  

It makes me want to cry how she detains you,

stinking mouthed, with a hundred talons,

putting her head over the roof edge to call down,

tasteless fig, fold over fold, empty

as dry-rotten garlic.  

 

She has you tight by the belt,

even though there’s no flower and no milk

inside her body.  

Death will open your eyes

to what her face is:  leather spine

of a black lizard.  No more advice.  

 

Let yourself be silently drawn

by the stronger pull of what you really love.

 

Rumi

(translated by Coleman Barks, et alia)

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