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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