In all the halls
and through the walls
my harried thoughts are singing.
I hear them there
and over there
like finches they are winging.
I think of you,
and you and you,
and, oh, the anguish stinging.
For every time
you seem sublime
I only end up wringing.
And so it is,
I’m only his,
the one who me is flinging.
And so I’ll go
where no one knows
and meet you there in clinging.
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“Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” ― Rumi
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Image: Angkor Wat, Cambodia (mine)
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