Flitting Butterflies

بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ 

The poet looked beyond the edge of a cliff,

In the face of a wind, blowing strong and stiff.

He looked at the starts, myriad diamonds above.

He spoke from a heart, broken words of love. 

“Were it so possible to proclaim that I have always loved you.

From the Day of Promises, my soul intimate, would forever ensue.

I’ve wondered have you ever loved me the way I loved you.

I’ve pondered if you’ve ever seen me the way I see you. 

I know the tides of Reality will always move us back arace.

I await with arms open when you come reluctantly to my embrace.

And then torn from my grasp to whirl in eddies and currents of strife.

Dolphins dance and rainbow fishes perform their ballet of life. 

All that I have for you are words, more mere words so cold.

But these words are all shards of my shattered soul.

And every shard is a cosmos larger than a universe of love.

Would they fly to you on the wings of a snow white dove? 

Would they melt the ice of heedlessness on your heart?

Would they warm a heart that doesn’t know it’s fallen apart?

Would they touch a heart that flits like a butterfly searching,

From one flower to the next in its worldly yearning? 

That you would see the myriad blooms and riots of colours?

That would settle awhile on one, yet always cover the others?

But ultimately, you have yet to taste the nectar fully.

And it isn’t the brightest blooms that taste the sweetest truly. 

I am, for you nothing; I have nothing; I am from nothing.

Yet in that nothing, you have become my only everything.

You are the tantalising taste of musk from the Garden.

It burns my mind, sears my soul and makes me ardent. 

And yet it can’t touch my heart that lies broken, empty.

I possess no more heart but yours if only you can see.

I have no more Self but become a mere image in the mirror.

So look in the mirror and I am your reflection clear.” 

“What manner of madness,” said the wind that hence blew,

“That you would serenade me and hoped she knew?

And who is this woman to inspire such pained burning,

And cause a Self to be annihilated in yearning? 

You sit on the air with oblivion beneath.

On a Celestial Stair and yet you grieve.

Can Love make you float beyond the embrace?

Or is there more to Thirst of the Taste?” 

Replied the lovelorn poet with tear-burned cheeks red,

“No mere daughter of Eve is left for me but instead,

I turn to the One who has never disappointed me;

Who has never broken my heart but has caused Love to be. 

I turn my back to a world that has left me for dead.

That has shattered a heart that for love has bled.

She is a mere butterfly flitting for the world.

Can there be space for my love in such a girl?” 

And the poet sat beyond the edge of a cliff.

Floating on air, on a silent wind blowing as if

He sat on a carpet in a Reality far beyond.

Contemplating the warmth of an Intimate Bond.