you know.

I have come here
to lay my head at your feet,
to ask forgiveness,
to sit in the rose chair
and bury my thorns.

Whatever I thought to do,
when I am here with you, is nothing.

I come to weep.
There is no escape from grief.

Outwardly I am silent. Inwardly,
you know how I am screaming.

Make my face yours.
I will shorten this poem.
Read the rest inside me.

Poor silent lover,
you have no one to talk to?

But your thoughts keep surging through
like an army of firebrands.

Alone, every person stays quiet.
Nobody speaks to a closed door.

But you are convinced
that you have lost your best companion.

Maybe you are already in the pure world,
beyond this scroungy wanting
and the metabolizing of nature.
No doubt.
[Rumi, ‘The Talking’]