A Field


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Rumi said there was a field where I should meet him
Far beyond wrongdoing and the right
I had told myself that I should seek him there
That I should meet him sometime soon.
And I tell myself often and frequently
but I am a coward
A coward who cowers behind brave like graces
And hides behind courageous faces
And pretends to be galant with words
But then waits for her moment to flee.
Always waiting
Always waiting for Rumi to appear beside me
As if “halfway” is a word meant for peasants and foreigners
As if I’m already there and it is he
Standing on the wrong side of the river
But it is me
Always me
Waiting to flee
And waiting to be found out again


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