Love’s Religion (D-S 27)
I left my city
long ago
because of you.
And all this time
by myself
I’ve nursed a pot
of flowers
with tears –
don’t take them,
they’re mine.
There’s nothing wrong
with a powerful man
seeking conversation
with a poor man –
but a poor man
who can’t help
wanting to be king
is tortured.
My own desire
arches up the stars,
but my luck
has bottomed out.
Now only death
can cure this pain.
Why is the hound-faced
professor following me
up and down the street,
asking me about faith
then telling me I’m wrong?
He can’t leave it alone.
I tell him:
Religion is desire itself,
the love itself,
the beloved, alone.
He doesn’t hear.
I cut down a side street
of my own, and leave him
pulling his beard and mumbling
and waving his hands
at the sky.
I remember her laughter,
incredibly sweet –
I didn’t love for nothing.
I remember summer nights
of never thinking
a single thought, and
living in her love.
Her shiny black hair
falling near her eyes
beckons to me.
How could I
ever have abandoned
the scent of that hair?
Now if the tall, beautiful peris
come for Mazun’s soul
he can’t help it, he’ll go.
He’s stuck his head
and luck in their gorgeous path
by talking too much of love.
