Esfand

Have you taken your root upon your shoulder? Are you crossing burning deserts? Mirage after mirage? Are you crossing dry sandstorms? Storm after storm? In the long space of illusory incantations? In illusory space, there is no place to set your tender stem. The place is here: before your feet. Take my soil up from the ground and mix me with the water of your canteen knead me give shape to the fresh dough — the shape of a vessel or a garden bed — and set your seed here... The scent of all the fresh buds will go with you to distant spaces from this garden bed, from this garden...