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. By the way, go here:
for what looks like a great biography of Lalla (she lived a LONG time ago), and some more of hers.
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
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.