The past flies away,
coming months and years do not exist:
Only the pinprick of this moment
belongs to us.
We decorate this speck of a moment—time—
by calling it a flowing river or a stream.
But often I find myself alone
in a desert wilderness,
straining to catch the faint echo of
unfamiliar sounds.
~ From The Secret Rose Garden by Sufi poet Mahmud Shabistari, thirteenth century. |
