On my bed sleep poets and saints;
volumes of hardbound madness.
There's a little space left - just enough to make love.
Won't you come, my lover, and partake in this orgy?
We'll lie among sheets of silk and paper,
we'll talk through the chaos of geniuses.
Rumi can watch how you kiss me
And you can be witness to my love for Hafiz
Let's lock fingers, as if in prayer
even as obscenities stream out of our mouths
Sex toys and rosary beads in our sweaty palms
lines between the profound and profane erased
Jalaluddin cries out for his lover divine
like you for me and I, for Khwaja Shams-ud-Din
Follow the poet's lead, and let your hands pleasure me
Make my head spin in ecstasy, like a whirling dervish
Listen to what Shams says,
"Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly".
Drop the sweet talk and an aashiq's tehzeeb
and fuck me while the saint-poets look on and sing.