The Gift
I made a trip to East West Bookshop on Roosevelt the other day. I knew I wanted to read something beautiful and poignant, but I wasn't sure of the genre, or what authors I should look for. Giving myself an hour and a half to browse, I moseyed through the aisles. I accumulated a stack of 5 or 6 books that I liked, but one book stood out among the others. A book by Persian poet Hafiz called, "The Gift." These poems make me yearn for simplification, but also provide me a satisfaction of feeling connected to all things. He makes love feel so accessible, that it seems almost ridiculous not to feel love all the time: We Have Not Come Here to Take Prisoners We have not come here to take prisoners, But to surrender ever more deeply To freedom and joy. We have not come into this exquisite world To hold ourselves hostage from love. Run my dear, From anything That may not strengthen Your precious budding wings. Run like hell my dear, From anyone likely To put a sharp knife Into