At the end of a crazy-moon night
the love of God rose.
I said, “It’s me, Lalla.”
The Beloved woke. We became That,
and the lake is crystal-clear.
–Lalla, Kashmir (India/Pakistan) (14th Century)
(This one’s by me, Lalla’s up there)
First I was little and faith wavered. I looked around wide-eyed,
shocked. . .
Then I got angry. That lasted a long time.
Then I found an ideal. I shattered it over and over like a piece of pottery that insisted
on wobbling.
I fell in love with my ideal, and kept shattering it.
Then I just fell in love.
After awhile, I noticed that love was in love with me.
Then came the silence.
No me, no You.
Right in the center.
The hoax was unmasked,
And no one was left to love.
But love loved on.
It’s true, you know.
Rays 
Your poem is great! Wait a minute, there’s no you… This is a great poem!
Thanks, dear one. I really like Lalla’s, too. Unpretentious, brief (she was said to traipse the countryside buck naked!)…and for real. You can tell by what happens to your spinal cord when you read it, eh?
Reblogged this on Rays and commented:
Here I go reblogging again….but my pal Charlie reminded me of this poem by Lalla. The poem by me, I’d completely forgotten. A poet I am not…at least, I don’t think so.
This is true, you know.
Er….that I’m not a poet? I already said that!
Just having fun….