Don’t unstring the bow,
I am your four-feathered arrow
that has not been used yet.
I am a strong knifeblade word,
not some if or maybe,
dissolving in air.
I am sunlight slicing the dark.
Who made this night?
A forge deep in the earth-mud.
What is the body?
What is love?
What is hidden in our chests?
Let the beloved be a hat pulled down firmly on my head.
Or drawstrings pulled and tied around my chest.
Someone asks, “How does love have hands and feet?”
Love is the sprouting-bed for hands and feet!
Your father and mother were playing love games,
They came together, and you appeared!
Don’t ask what love can make or do!
Look at the colours of the world.
The riverwater moving in all rivers at once.
The truth that lives in Shams’ face.