Language of the Mystics

The language of the mystics 

May sound like literary aesthetics 

Full of metaphors and allegories

But there is not a single word, unnecessary 

Because the path is already full of darkness

And they want not that their beloved is lead astray 

They are in a predicament 

To speak of the unspeakable 

To share the gift 

Of a Sufi heart  

The world of the forms and shapes

Needs adjectives and adornments 

But the truth can be drunk

Only stripped off of everything false 

Those drunkards 

Hafez and Rumi and Omar Khayyam

Who danced and who loved 

Are the bees 

Who collected the cosmic nectar 

For you to taste 

To taste your own heart 

And know their secret language  

To feel that tenderness in your heart

Like the evening star

And the all consuming brightness

Of the afternoon sun 

They call out that something within you

That knows it can talk to the moon

That knows that plants also dance 

That recognizes the songs of the birds 

And knows that, that is the beloved 

That, that is the lover 

And that is beyond the two 

And that alone exists 

It is this ecstasy of which

These mad ones are singing about 

Of finding harmony amidst chaos

Of finding eternity amidst time  

Of finding utter stillness amidst intense movement 

Of knowing who you really are