! In The Spirit Of Rumi - 41 - Prayer Poem by Michael Shepherd

In the street outside the window
a beautiful young maiden passes;
only her eyes, looking straight ahead, demurely down,
are to be seen of her, above her veil, below her headscarf; and yet –
around her, as we draw our breath, transfixed –
around her, all the air is radiant with the light of love…

and in the following days, for hours each day,
we, love-smitten, wait in hope to catch her
as she passes; and the more we see her passing,
the more we seek to snare her attention;
hoping for the day when, as she passes,
her lovely eyes may glance so briefly, glance this way…

and on that day, the day of days
which we have waited for, for weeks and months -
then, it is no longer all we want:
how to ensnare her gaze? so that, one day,
our burning ears and lips may draw one single word from her…

*

Wise men say in the ancient tongue, the word,
to pray, meant, to incline, to listen – and, to snare…

and so for every one of us, our whole life is prayer:
from the first moment to the last,
from the first time when the baby’s eyes
meet those of loving parents, until
the last moment when our eyes turn upward…

we bow in adoration of the Beloved,
of whom we are not worthy; yet…
then listen for the first word breathed
by child; by parent; lover; ruler; God…

And, lover and beloved both alike,
set snares to catch our Beloved to ourselves…
that Beloved who is outside us, yet within…
that sleeping beauty who is our very self.

and, since prayer is love, our Beloved
sets snares for us also, to test our love;
this is the lovely game of love…
God plays it too with us:
to test our faith, to test our trust, to test our love…

Prayer, O Beloved, is pure love.