There are no stories or poems left
In the spaces between lights flickering madly.
This is a promise, in a way.
The only darkness that was left was between stars,
And that was too far to know.
The beauty in darkness is its contrast with light,
The way prayers are chanted under a dome,
The way anything is allowed under the guise of mistakes,
Under the comforting blanket of a certainty that darkness
Is now the realm of the beloved.
Bahji garden, Saturday January 13th, 2007
bourré joint carrelage check