I once observed a swarm of bees
carrying their traffic in and out of a tree;
for two years running, according to season,
I'd lift my head into their midst, my reason
was to hear them, feel them more nearly
and hum at their timbre, imbibe it more clearly –
and humming was intoning, and this no less singing,
our own space intoning – I still, awash in their winging.
On raising my pitch just so, they flew faster –
when lowered, they slowered; then after
some minutes this humming grown quicker:
the drone manifested as pure Nature-Zikr.
Sufis have a nose for where the pollen's kept,
they've alone gathered Knowledge, while Muslims slept –
Love's own Zikr gathers atoms together, sovereign world!
Out of such was true honey combed, as the Dervish whirled.
When drenched in Love you pant, “There is no God but Reality!”
this is no property of ideology, nor is it the colorless banality
of crawling, supremacist, sado-maso, herd-submissive pork-squeamers –
but rather a Statement of Sovereign Love in Action, in God immersed!
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