Love is not condescension, never
that, nor books, nor any pencil trace

on paper, no; nor in how we talk
about each other. Love is a tree

with branches reaching out to always
with roots that come from everywhere,

and no trunk. Have you seen it?
No. You can’t. Your deep desire

can’t find it. The longing you feel for
love is who you are. No other.

When you become the Lover, your
longing will be like this:

a man in the ocean, holding a plank.
Soon, the plank, the man,

the encircling sea itself, all of it, are one:
one being, one communion;

the swaying sea, the teacher,
the secret of God.

 

Rumi