After Rumi

O nameless One, O stranger,
O you who stand at the open door

as if wanting to pass through,
say who I am, say I am you.

I am the last rose and the blackbird singing its fragrance.
I am the burning candle and the moth diving through.

I am the psychotic girl having sex with the Pope.
I am the junkie and the guard with the keys.

I am the black-robed priest and the dispossessed poet.
I am the green parrot perched under the sun

squawking the lines I’ve stolen:
All life is one.

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