21

Sing the gardens, my heart, those you never knew; gardens

as if poured into glass: bright, unattainable.

Waters and roses of Isfahan or Shiraz,

sing them blissfully, praise them, beyond compare.

Show, my heart, that you aren’t without them.

That when their figs ripen, they have you in mind.

That when their winds grow almost visible

amid the flowering branches, it’s you they embrace.

Avoid this error: that so many chances die

when the one choice is made: to be!

Silk thread, you were drawn into the fabric.

Whatever single image you made yourself part of

(be it even a scene from a life of torment),

feel how the whole carpet is meant, its glorious weave.