Like rusty mirrors

When I see your face,
the stones start spinning.
You appear.  All studying wanders.
I lose my place.

Water turns pearly.
Fire dies down
and does not consume.

In your presence
I do not want
what I thought I wanted,
those three little hanging lamps.

Inside your face
the ancient manuscripts
seem like rusty mirrors.
You breathe,
and new shapes appear.

The music of a desire
as widespread as spring
begins to move like a great wagon.

Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside are lame.

Rumi, from Coleman Barks' A Year With Rumi.


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