30 June 2013

Jane Eyre Meets Rumi on the Moor

           Jane:                                                                                      Rumi:
Gone is my light,                                                       Gone is my light
and yet he lives on still.                                             to that greatest light
Yes, he lives yet,                                                       Half my soul at least
but not with me.                                                        is also gone.
Others seek my hand,                                               But I live on still.
but do not cherish                                                     The wind rushes through
its small form.                                                           this hollow husk
I, who know what                                                    I have become.
it is to be loved,                                                        But I am no wind’s slave.
prized, sought                                                          With what little self
for soul’s kin’s                                                          that here remains,
sake,                                                                        I will erect a flag,
Will not submit                                                         or wire,
to such slavery                                                          rising in this wind
for mere                                                                    to vibrate and thus
appearance.                                                              give voice.
I must be free.                                                           I must either sigh or sing.
If I cannot be with                                                     If I turn this way
him to whom my heart will                                         or that,
ever cling,                                                                 the wind winds
I will belong to                                                          into words,
no man.                                                                    and becomes
Perhaps my death                                                     an air, a song,
will bring me to                                                         a hymn.
his dear sight                                                       One day a breath will waft me
once again.                                                               to another land.
But until then,                                                           But until then,
I will be                                                                    I will
free.                                                                         sing.

                                                 Now he is
                                            a present absence,
                                                a hole filled
                                          with a quiet void.
                                             What remains is
                                            Hope, perhaps,
                                                   or faith.
                                                Freely, then,
                                             I wait and sing.

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