The Memories of Oblivion

What i utter is a glimpse of you, see how my tongue becomes my eye, so does the prayer begins that never wishes to halt.

Your grace has taught me to speak a tongue, that is only heeded by ears that have been accustomed only to the cries of destitutes.

What could a sage desire if he becomes your shade of mercy and dust of thy brows.

O the sacred realm and destiny of my soul, why keep veils that deprive my sight to reach you?

Have i not passed whatever had been asked of me ?

Had i not slept on rocks of despair?

had i not walked on thorns of despondency?

had i not embellished my soles and palms with blisters?

and

you must remember the gruesome yet loved test of all.

Casting my self in to dungeons of darkness where i used to conjure thy grace.

O beloved! i have nothing else to offer except a heap of bones, blood and flesh. Come so i may offer you what remains of remains,

take away all of my physical_ity and turn me in to an eagle so that i would float high on winds that carry your aroma.