One by one the drunks are coming. One by one wine-tasters arrive.
Lovers are flirting along the way. The innocent emerge from the garden.
One by one from the field of being and the absolute, potentiality is leaving and becoming is arriving.
Those with robes of gold unearthed from an infinite mine spring forth for the sake of the needy.
The starving and sick, after passing through pastures of love, are showing up nourished and healthy.
The spirit of the true like sunshine from on high is spilling down upon the false.
Hallowed be that place where ripe fruit falls for our blessed mothers even in the middle of the winter.
Our source is grace and our return is grace. From pure awareness to self-awareness, we are transpiring.
~transcreated from an Arberry translation (A-102) of a Rumi ghazal (F-819)
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