The morn springs thee o’er oblivion’s brink,
The stars overcome, sunk in the day’s drink.
Now set thy path, past Allah’s golden dome,
Unto the green-grassed river-bank to sink.

The heat and noises of the day will find
My empty chair at home, throwing their rind
Of dust and grime on through the open door,
While afar I read, write, play, and find.

What sword, sling, and arrows from nature sing
Will serve repast, after the noon chimes ring,
My prayers but expressed to the balmy airs,
While the day-star shines as life happening.

She runs past the old and patterned doorways,
And through the dim, undusted alley strays,
Until all have gone to mosque to praise,
When-upon she’s off, her lover to raise.

Here the purest pitch, where the bluebirds sing,
Where the lilacs ne’er know it isn’t spring,
Where Heaven’s eternity bides its time,
Where all woes and troubles have taken wing.

Here the grape vines ne’er toll their final knell,
E’er pouring ruby nectar in life’s dell,
An idyll, where we’re the cups to be filled
To the brim, and spill, quenched and drenched so well.

What fires burn; what flares radiate and rise,
Passioned here, connecting us to the skies,
Beyond all ken, as flames that ne’er lessen;
Oh, Mother Nature outdid herself this prize.

She shines, well beyond the radiant dome,
And she curves, as gracefully as a poem—
Like a gift of orange roses wrapped with bows,
She’s the eternal present, e’er at home.

What wingéd creature arises and flies
Though the red rose garden of paradise!
Whose fair dreams become from visions realized!
The definite blooms from the many tries.

Who knew that the twin-born Peri was bred
From lower flesh and higher spirit bled,
Where the Hellish desert meets the greensward,
When the hot sands and the luscious turf wed.

The night promised great warmth from a simoom,
So we fell back to the tent, for the doom,
And there re-treated— the city gates closed;
Morn soon enough to return and resume.

The next evening, near the tavern door,
An anxious man asked, from the stubborn floor,
“What do fates and furies portend with sand?”
I said, “Those are the grains of time—the roar.”

“Ah,” she gleamed, “the lights of the night return,
And the holy spires strain to reach the burn,
But can never attain those stars afire;
Yet we glow of their dust, lighted in turn.”

“Let us enter, to converse and commune,
With many tales to unveil or subsume,
But we’ll remember our plans made from drink,
Especially those born of Persia fume.”

Inside, some clamored, bewildered, weary,
“What are the secrets of eternity?”
She looked about… “You unlock the unknown
By living; we’re all on its committee.”

“From whence doth your Heavenly beauty shine?”
She told, “From time, dust, light, love, verse, & wine.”
“Ah, the alef; hence, what brings on the end?”
“You tricky questioners, it’s the same line!”

“Are you formed of fire, like Omar Khayyam,
Descended from fallen angels, damned,
Exiled from paradise, until repentance?”
“Well, if you’re into penance, then I am!”

“Well, since you seem otherworldly and wise,
We figured out that you must come from the skies.”
“My unbounded highs are as what flies, so,
I’m djinni, in varied human guise.”

“What Heavenly Saki serves our portions
And pours our illuminating potions?”
“It, so long and slow, thus wasn’t Divine—
Nature’s scroll imprints our emotions.”

“Why must we turn to the deep grave of death,
Having become accustomed to life’s breadth?”
I said, “Expiry rends all composites;
E’en the Wheel will someday breathe its last breath.”

“I, as all, must one day soft surrender,
When the Angel knocks to take me under.
What will remain are my written quatrains—
For all those who’ll come to be to ponder.”

“What are the ways to live?” One wished to know.
“There’s the sensual, the emotional,
And the intellectual; however,
Living them blended makes for the best morale.”

“Hindu goddesses aren’t virgins thought of;
Their healthy desires are free to rove.
Enlightenment is sought and reached through the
Profound experience of sensual love.”

She: “Omar, they think you’ve many ladies,
And they don’t believe I’m fire from Hades—
All because I just flat out told them so.”
“They’d rather that one’s tales must be shady.”

My day filled with algebra, for the Shah,
And then the Davean bombast of the bazaar;
But I caught a whiff of scented khuskhus,
Calling me to the forest of chinar.

On Shah’s errands, I bought a rose bouquet,
For the next after-dusk, to give away,
When the bulbul sweetly sings all night,
Where the jasmine and julep drink of May.

My sweetheart, too, had to work all this day,
Selling pearled beads to earn her time to play.
She said, “Bring a carafe; I’ll drink your musk.”
From back behind, I brought forth her bouquet.

“I love the light, and that we are the dark
Inside the light that makes our love to spark.”
“Undisturbed by the day’s bright noise, I’ll sing,
Sensing your soft sweep across my heart string.”

“I played a fine trick on the Shah last night;
I said that I’d bring down the star light
Of his favorite sky pattern to ground…
My sparklers dug into the sand lit bright!”

“Follow the path, past the rose bushes sight,
Where the forest opens to a shaft of light.
Here the flower beds, one with a lush of grass,
Where greenish light glows forth the hours we’ll pass.”

“Quatrains are the pearls strung along the wrath,
Illuminating beads that life’s web hath,
Lighting the decades of one’s rosary,
To thread the enchanted gossamer path.”

“Days are the cyclic units of time’s pearls—
Beads worn round in the necklace of the months;
They distance themselves, like night echoes,
Into the rosary of the seasons.”

“Are there stars in roses and they in stars?”
“The roses are made of the dust of stars
And worlds within star systems have roses;
We’re all life-stars and roses from the stars.”

Would I, even for a day, live without
One I would love, and leave unfound, in doubt,
A paramour, the love of my life?
Then my standard of life has bottomed out.

Upon all worlds our shadows are cast,
From our inner musings that are so vast,
While we savor the gladness of life.
We’re off back to the inn to hear what’s asked.

“Is future connected to the present?”
“Yes, and in more ways than you’d want it sent,
As the consistencies you might resent:
All future flowers from seeds of the present.”

“Oh why, why is there anything at all?”
“There has to be, for Nothing has no call.”
“No birth, nor creation, choice, or option?”
“Even the Great Wheel knows not its withal.”

“What happens, from there being no election,
Of that which hath no point for direction?”
“Everything happens, for it e’er changes,
Revealing all faces of complextion.”

“What becomes of this potential everything?”
“Anything, as all its possible rings.”
“What’s the information of All these things”?
“Nothing, so it e’er jitters, flutters, and sings.”

“What sense to it all, in that it must be?
What is the message of eternity?”
“The only missive of all time is being,
It’s point is but that it cannot not be.”

“But what’s the base of the basis, as First,
The simplest from which all things fill their thirst?”
“True, the simple, fundamental monad
Composes complicates, uni-versed.”

“So, we’ve it wrong that the base is complex?”
“Yes, as wrong as opposites can expect,
For complexities are ever the less,
From more and more underlying simplex.”

“Fine, but not; you leave me with mystery.
What is going on here? For what purpose me?”
“You and it are the riddle that solves itself.
“You are exactly ‘being’ in its spree.”

Life suddenly fits me like a glove,
As I float on feelings like a dove,
Renewed energy giving a shove.
Well, could it be that I am in love?

A life ought to be rich with excitation—
One deserves to enjoy complete sensation.
Pleasure’s not merely a reward for working;
It’s life’s foremost experience of elation.

As of now I hold reality’s attention—
This is the time of my present comprehension.
What is past exists only in my memory,
The future only in my imagination.

Love is the mutual creation of identity.
To be in love is not a loss of independence,
But rather a shared identity with the lover
That does not destroy the identity of the other.

“As we walk and while away the hours,
We taste a life that’s sweet without the sour.
As soul meets soul under love’s great power,
We merge what’s yours and mine into ours!”

I give no reason for love’s passion planned,
Because to do so would be second-hand;
For the Heart and Soul have many reasons
That Reason could never understand.

Back to the tavern we crept, its drinks calling,
Where the inquisitive sat, pondering.
One and another said, “We’ve more questions,
For we’ve all been born here without asking.”

“The scroll writes itself, my wondering friends,
Having not any plan unto its ends,
In this life borrowed from death that it lends,
So we know not how the veil weaves and wends.”

“Life’s object must be mental happiness,
For thoughts are all we can think, feel, or sense;
Aim for this euphoric state of well-being,
For true paradise is a state of mind.”

“Who can we blame for our selves unmended,
For our nature’s ingredients blended?”
“You could invent ‘Allah’, as the baker,
Who disowns His recipe intended.”

“What this wonderland? I am baffled here.
What sends me though the ages, to my bier?”
“You’ve just said: death sifts the best from the rest;
And, overall, you cannot not be here.”

“What my life’s narrative that I hie through?”
“No matters it, for any one will do.”
“What’s left, then, in all common, as the clue?”
“We’re back to being—experiencing a ‘who’.”

“Where am I going? Am I important?”
“You’re going nowhere; here is your life’s plant.”
“In the mosque, they say ‘God’ as if its true.”
“‘Faith’ in their wishes is behind what they chant.”

“Only a Fool would blame His own creations
For the taint therein—of His poor craftsmanship,
So, rejoice, there’s no Maker of Man; these ‘flaws’
Provide for interesting character types!”

“Their ingrained beliefs the priests’ duly preach,
As if notions were truth and fact to teach.
Oh, cleric, repent; at least say, ‘Have faith’;
Yet, of unknowns ne’er shown none can e’er reach.”

“Of elements four and planets seven,
You strain to divine those signs eleven.
Drink de-vined juice! I’ve long taught this lesson:
When not, you’re nought; naught in Hell nor Heaven.”

“No one has plumbed the Secret Depths of Truth—
The jewel eludes e’en the wisest sleuth;
Thus we hear wishes turned to beliefs’ lore,
Yet none can say, ‘It’s this, and here’s the proof.’”

“The impossible dream we’d of our fate
Was to outwit life’s expiration date—
To be deathless and somewhere carry on;
We’ll live, and on, in the lives we’ve touched, mate!”

“Bless your soul with tongues of fire; Holy Spirit burn;
Leave no trace of man’s desire; Holy Spirit turn.
Oh, man, why detest thy constitution;
Doth thou think Nature has a lot to learn?”

“Though ne’er we can know the Ultimate named,
From that fact something profound is still framed;
It’s that when one can’t know, one must still live,
And as such in that life cannot be blamed.”

“So Nature got it wrong, the pious say,
In man’s constitution, erring its essay,
Granting so many ways to go astray;
Well, then, Who, do they say, penned this world’s play?”

“What the meaning to this play we’re befit,
From dirt to dust within the script that’s writ?
The wise in search have thrown themselves to waste;
Experience alone is the benefit.”

“Throw not life to the breeze, draft this day known,
For yesterday’s winds have already blown
And future’s currents have not yet stirred.
Forget dead airs; now’s breath is all you own.”

“Think not that I am existent as ‘I’,
Or talk the talk and walk the walk of ‘I’,
For all’s of the ‘IS’; the Cosmos is I;
Where then, and what, who, and whence is this ‘I’?”

“All moves by law of output from input,
The will, too, since it votes to step a foot,
And worse, by the time we know, all’s been cast;
We can neither wax nor wane the mold’s root.”

“Cloudbursts wash the faces of the tulips,
The wine cleansing you, pouring through thy lips.
All becomes of light, dust, water, and air,
As in the meadow grown from your eclipse.”

“The raindrop falls and returns to the sea;
Dust floats to earth and merges with the lea;
Lives come and go in time— what’s denoted?
Nows spark and fly; they’ve no eternity.”

“Mind is the ultimate of all there is;
It is the universe: billions of years
Of primordial material, complex;
So, then, what more could human beings want?”

“Life, mind, spirit, form, time, and consciousness
Derive from the fundamental content
That materialized from the unknowable,
And grants us the experience of being.”

Care, a gentle old man, sits silently
By the sundial in Time’s sanctuary,
Slowly marking the hours by the shadows
That creep over the face of eternity.

Worries may not come true, and if they do,
Thus they would, and then in them you must stew.
Past imperfect points to a future tense,
Yet ever only Nows does the Wheel brew.

There’s naught else but lone, resultant Nows.
No matter how one tries to shake from boughs
The fruits of truth from the Tree of Knowledge,
Computation makes not yet the morrows.

Sung songs of life composed now lie reposed,
Thy face-dust Beauty’s music decomposed;
Ah, Sun’s Venus-brows we’re honored to brush,
That future’s wand will rearrange recomposed.

The weight of the world I bear on my back;
‘Tis mine to own, so there’s nought that I lack.
I’ve everything, and no place to put it;
After it crushes me to dust, I’ll unpack.

Oh, those imaginings that can ne’er be,
Such as Nought, Stillness, and Infinity,
As well as Random, Beginning, and End,
Plus Full Solidity, Free Will, and He.

In the whisperings of the after-years,
The winds of time slowly dry my tears;
Nor would I take back a single drop, for
From those tears the flowers grew without fears.

Now we depart. Farewell to the moon-bow
That glowed with our delight! Often that old
World will rise and look for us in vain, ‘though
Time can’t scatter the flowers that we grew!