Poetry

Burnt pages of desire

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A honey-gushing spring breeze sprinkles blissful showers,

Burnt pages, an oath of no return, spreads its wings

Life is molten lava, a moth’s temptation to a flame.

Life’s mysterious essence is inside a scared little red box

Within the box is a smaller purse, with a golden lock,

Its key; suspended by the prayer of the saint’s fragrance.

A holy shrine is the enlightened knights resting sanctuary

Sleepless, the night dwellers stay, in utter wonderment,

Whispering lyrics of the four winds, dancing away death.

The little box of wisdom shakes and rattles, pleading to shed

All the secrets, hidden within its heavy chest, a golden bird flies.

A box within a box, a bigger box within a smaller box,

Another tiny box of red silver rainbow, peacocks; an aphrodisiac.

Within its sacred chest rests ‘The Golden Secret of the Saints’,

The kiss of anguish, the kiss of love, the kiss of vanity, kiss of dust;

All erupt if opened; its key is only for the pure dreamers.

A delusion within a delusion, within a delusion, is where question is,

A slippery slope for the wanderers, but the finders dig deep for answers,

Between the realms an unseen violin plays, harmoniously in rhythm

Soothing through the soul’s wounded walls of contamination.

Thus, only within this delusion, is the answer towards Rumi’s light.

The bright star, shinning like morning glory of Shams of Tabriz

The delusion is a tiny dot, hidden in it, is a key to the Lord’s voice.

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