That Ancient Tree
On our ancestral estate
Beneath it’s roots
Great treasures lay
I would sit by your side
As a young child
You became a silent witness
As Shahid and Mashud
To my heart’s facade
Shedding tears
of separation
For my future master
I knew even then
Of master and disciple
Without a teacher
who taught me these lessons
Who brought me to Hu
Being taught the wird
As I sat in solitude
And transcribed my words
In mystical metaphors
Speaking of Ayyaz
and the land of Shiraz
Who taught this to me
What would I know
Was it you
I would sit with your friends
towering evergreens
Shading the famed veranda
Alone with the Alone
I would sit
on cane chairs and cotton cushions
Maids offering exotic fruits
and butter biscuits
pomegranates the fruit of mystics
Wine forbidden for this young soul
Yet she desired to drink more
Underage as a determined femme sage
But what would I know
Gardeners running to and fro
Ambassador cars and foreign delegations
A common scene in the presence
Of this royal tree
of ancient wisdom
Remotely in silence
I continued to sit
Until the ink of my heart began to stream
I sat and observed my thoughts
In order to take heed of
Idris Shah’s wisdom
who planted the seed
I would write
After moments in silence
To allow Divine Tajjali to traverse through
From heart to pen
On pages of old
by words turned to gold
During those days
Where you became my gaze
And I yours
Like a grandmother
Overseeing my affairs
You watched and taught
Through a language unspoken
I was lead to Khayyam
Upon a dusty shelf
The room I slept in
Housed his works
Like forbidden imagery
I dusted the pages
Glaring at Persian delights
What would this young soul know
Of the truth of red wine
The secret of lovers
I dared to ask for more
What would I know
As I turned the pages
Khayyam pierced into my eyes
Infecting my soul
With a rare Sheraz
Rubayyat I sought
In awe of poetry
As a young spirit
What would I know
I decided for the life of my life
That I would drink eternally
And pen my heart openly
That same summer
Of starry nights and rainy days
Where the winds of monsoons
Would moan in pain
I received your blessings
And composed like the ancients
Of Persians and Sumarians
Of Rabia and Mirabai
Of Hashimites and Bakhtites
They opened my heart
ALAM NASHRAH
A spiritual surgery
Something was deposited
My memory recalls
But what would I know
This happened not once or twice
But thrice and more
While asleep and awake
Sealing my heart with
golden threads and silver brocade
a honey dew love for ahl al bayt
But what would I know
