Be with me, Kabir,
when the gray clouds bring their far-away greetings
in that language of storm.
Translate upon my hardened fingers
what they have done, upon my heart
what it stubbornly loved.
Weave me a thin russet blanket
I can vanish into each night,
trek unseen the dream sands as a Bedouin,
with a torch I can call sun.
But keep its fabric lithe
so I recognize through it day’s light.
Tell me just enough of the truth
that I continue battling up the mountain,
just enough and no more
water, so I still thirst,
love, so I still desire,
shadow, so I still weep.
(published by Exercise Bowler)