I look up, again, at the cold moon
pressing its face against the windowpane,
sucking the edges of the corner table,
closing the language door.
I am walking to the graveyard
waking every insect
not in sight.
always full of father
splitting an anthology of breaths,
now capable only of bloodline
in my wife’s womb.
The moon won’t use the door, only the window.
– Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
Italics | Rephrased from Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks)