Do not run away.
Run inward,
as unripe grapes hurry toward their own sweetness.

Do not try to bite through this rope.
You are the bow. This is the bowstring.

You kick your hindlegs up,
thinking you are permanently through with work.
I have just put you out pasture for the day.

I am deep inside your thirst and your hunger.
There is no escaping me.

That other wanting, that other rationality,
those are donkey’s milk, or worse.
Do not drink them.

There is no security, except for what you feel among lovers.
Crawl in with those.

Remember the ababil birds, who picked up little stones
and dropped them from a great height onto invade elephants.

The love in your chest is like an ababil bird,
searching the ground, listening, then flying higher and higher.

The rose opens.
A cauldron begins to boil.

The sun heats up,
but you must wait a long time. Wait.

Shams put a taste of light inside patience.
The bat flies to his cave.

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