the earth we tilled with your mercy
is covered in a layer of dust
ourselves, producers of little rain,
dry in the eye and empty in the chest
i, never an oasis but always home to green,
turn to sand carried swiftly away
at times i wonder,
am i rumi or am i shams?
am i to receive
or will i ever inspire,
not as me,
but of you?
will a day come when i
am finally what you intended,
when i am no longer a sum of ingredient?
keep me apart here,
i have no complaint,
but please, please tell me this:
am i here to await the coming of a light,
or am i here to myself become one?