be the dry twig
cast into his flame
by your own hand
(Divan, xxi)
*
in one hand
a hundred thousand apples—
oh sweet fall
(Divan, xxvi)
*
they get in the way
of this pilgrimage into self—
the feet
(Divan, xxvii)
*
every tree
even in the most briny soil
bears fruit in his sun
(Divan, xxvii)
*
all that is mine—
this longing to lose
everything
(Divan, xv)