Hanging with Hafiz
To be born is to die. To die is to return to the earth as the dust from which you came. There you rot in the bosom of Gaia. Your return gives her joy. It is not the body she holds, but rather your true nature. You are inseparable. She whispers as the wind. She sings as the nightingale. She dances as the spring rains across the meadow. She yearns for your return. She enfolds you in waves of beauty. Yet, you weep. You do not see. You do not hear. You pass by her offerings. They go unnoticed by the roadside in your haste to survive oblivion.
