Of Rumi & Spring It is, as I walk the blue dusk. And it is the sweet river twisting, coursing through my room, from an open window. And in the morning, though fainter still, weaves itself the rousing, waking scents of everything. And though I’m but old, it is my first spring. So I doContinue reading “.”
It was in the spring, in the season of returning, A stranger reposed – The scene still in my eyes, My heart: Long lost brother and I, and a paltry few, A muted requiem, For who knew him?