post-pilgrimage seven

lovelywalking slowly down dusty streets
his eyes are lost in thoughts that wash over
like forty waves and swallow him up

how blessed the dust of ‘Akka
how Blessed the Beauty whose feet trod upon it
he says with a tear;
his soul cries out in its separation

like a temple-flower
his prayer falls from his lips, and a wind stirs
and scatters the words he intones;
praise God who hearkens and is ready to answer

would that these stones could speak
and recount the tales of his Beloved;
would that he could hear the voices
of the Concourse on High, singing His praise

lost in thoughts of remembrance
he steps as though scaling those hallowed steps
he walks as though treading the rocky path that leads
to that Point of Adoration, that Holy of Holies

the flutter of a breeze sweeps away the dust
and scatters the flowers falling softly at his feet
and he listens for the voice of the Promised One

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