Photo credit: Flickr / Carl Jones
Poetry

The prophets are leaving

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Can you hear them?
The prophets are leaving.
They have had enough.

The mountains no longer go to them,
no sea is churned, while the sky hides its moon
and the stars are too blurry to read.

The earth lays desolate like a dead turtle on its back.
Not a leaf, not a whisper of wind remain;
there is nothing left to measure or to paint.

Dissonance fills every cavity, even the husks of wheat.
It no longer rains, and no one understands
that it is because alchemy is taught no more.

The prophets are leaving.

Left behind are the screamers.
Oh they can dance and sing and even laugh,
but they do not know how to swirl.

Absolute love languishes untouched.
They confined it to a dreary definition
reducing the One to oneself.

Now, Rumi is read obtrusively
by myopic egos too scared to dive into the sea
– eight hundred years of wisdom discarded…

The prophets are gone.

I heard their steps.
They left in the middle of the night,
only the poets were awake.

After they left, I read Rumi.
His book of poetry and I
burst into flames.

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