Their spring meadows

are desolate now. Still, desire

for them lives always

in our heart, never dying.
     These are their ruins.

     These are the tears

     in memory of those

     who melt the soul forever.
I called out, following after


You so full with beauty,

     I’ve nothing!
     I rubbed my face in the dust,

     laid low by the fever of love.

     By the privilege of the right of desire for you

     don’t shatter the heart
Of a man drowned in his words,

burned alive

in sorrow.

Nothing can save him now.
     You want a fire?

     Take it easy. This passion

     is incandescent. Touch it.

     It will light your own.
Ibn ‘Arabi


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