High Over Iran
An hour out of Doha, the map on the screen
Said we were passing over Tabriz, but I’m
Sure that Shams was still not there, the one
Whose vanishing tipped Rumi into love’s
Fire blazing through the gate of no return.
You looked so unwell on Skype last night
I had a taste of the pain he must have felt,
The breaking open of the heart, watching
Every cherished hope tumbling down like
Baggage and bodies from a burst airplane.
Shades kept alive the illusion of darkness
In our steel tube intent on somewhere else
As we huddled to reckon the ransom due
For Shams’ return, for love to prevail, for
Day to become the night of remembering.
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