I Truly Practiced My Solitude

I Truly Practiced My Solitude

My head ponders how to write my words,

My heart replied: “Poetry is within me, not your foolish head.”

I answered: “Thank you; I see no shame in advice,

Nor humiliation for the foolish.

For I am foolish if I write my words without my heart.”

Poetry is the feeling of a heart dressed in dignity and honor,

Devotion to it, and a pure love for the first beloved.

Here are the hearts, if they tell their tales,

Not with blood will love be quenched,

But instead, it will be watered with amber instead of blood.

O my heart,

O poor, love-stricken soul,

The beats of hearts are entwined with life and my existence.

If I am foolish, as you say with a word,

I am the lover of your love and your beloved.

You know more than him or me, and I obey what you decree.

And what the words echo from your heart,

Dressed in the robe of confident, respectful speech.

Please, do not call me foolish,

For I’ve heard people say that the head starts before you,

Where the eyes have words before your touch begins.

What has possessed you to describe me as foolish?

Is it envy,

Or the love of an angel unto Ali?

For I love you all if you are the heart,

Or the eyes, and my whole being, even my little finger.