Acts of Helplessness
Here are the miracle-signs you want:
that you cry through the night and get up at dawn, asking,
that in the absence of what you ask for your day gets dark, your neck thin as a spindle,
that what you give away is all you own,
that you sacrifice belongings, sleep, health, your head,
that you often sit down in a fire like aloes wood, and often go outto meet a blade like a battered helmet. When acts of helplessness become habitual, those are the signs.
But you run back and forth listening for unusual events, peering into the faces of travelers.
“Why are you looking at me like a madman?”I have lost a friend. Please forgive me.
Searching like that does not fail. There will come a rider who holds you close. You faint and gibber. The uninitiated say, “He’s faking.” How could they know?
Water washes over a beached fish, the water of those signs I just mentioned.
Excuse my wandering. How can one be orderly with this? It’s like counting leaves in a garden, along with the song-notes of partridges, and crows.
Sometimes organization and computation become absurd. Rumi