Poetry

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sun on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's
hush I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there; I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Wonder,
A garden among the flames!
My heart can take on any form:
A meadow for gazelles,
A cloister for monks,
For the idols, sacred ground,
Ka’ba for the circling pilgrim,
The tables of the Torah,
The scrolls of the Qur’an.
My creed is Love;
Wherever its caravan turns along the way,
That is my belief,
My faith.

Ibn ʿArabī