The
New Song ( after Guardian)
It is not Sufi song, but a song
of different kind, kindling our
little pleasures amenable at
our will and times; can you find
this song of pleasure, from groves,
rivers, pastures, know not; not
a burning smoke of hearts,
destroying cities, but dying song
wholly ours.
Flowers, tales and stories
dances, jumping from place
to place, dreaming and delving
into a dizzy morrow, for a sweet
better morrow. Where are we now:
Angels calculations do they go wrong;
Do they preach on Souls, rebirth
Reincarnations; not now, still we
Care for our selves, our beings.
A dying song of no redemption
No liberation, only surrender
Towards the end.
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