Oh sweetest Sufi, what forlorn piety is this,
to seek the Cube of Love in tombs of our dead saints?
Your final folly, for the living and breathing Love was here all along,
walking beside you,
inscribing these lines upon your immediacy,
considering your tomorrow,
dreaming your yesterdays,
Constantly, consistently yours.
Six sides, six lines of my declaration.
And an inner seventh, your projection,
form the Fatiha.
Do you know this? Isn’t it obvious?