I’m a constant thought looking for a place to rest,
A constant voice looking for a quite,
A silence searching for its peace.
I’m a grief looking for the hands of tears,
A soul escaping the shadow of death,
A past yearning to let go of memories.
I’m a future without an anticipation of next,
And then a present without a thread to
live within the moment.
I’m a dawn looking for its sun,
A night’s sky searching for its moon
and the stars,
A human losing its connection with soul,
or spirituality or himself.
I’m a homesickness without a home,
An autumn without its winter
Or a death without its shadow,
like a mother without the love for her child.
I’m a tree without leaves,
oh! I’m Rumi without Shams Tabriz!
You know not how I’m a brain without imagination
or ideas or poetry, and then
A poetry without its muse or rhyme,
which has lost its rhythm and flow.
How I am me without you, me without myself,
I’m a childhood without nostalgia,
And yet how I wish if I was only just a land without inequality
or a grenade without destruction,
A man without violence or a class without discrimination,
Just like a spring without an autumn.
Just like peace within a silence.
And among all that what am I even,
And what is everything without the other?
Some found, rest lost, some unjust, rest victimized.
And only I know the amount of weight carried within each line of what I write.