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the singing of our burning gold

I've recast this a little from the original Rumi.
Changed the sex, too. I'm a militant sexist, female subfolder variety. And *proud* of it.


Some Friends of the woodnymph, Astraya, go to see her.
They have heard that she has gone spectacularly insane:
That she is a wildfire no one can contain --
She who has been such a source of wisdom.

They arrive at her house.
She yells out, Hey you, be careful, coming out here in my forest.
Who are you?

Don't you remember us?
We are your Friends.
What secrets are you hiding with this madness?

Astraya begins to rave a mix of curse words and gibberish.
She rushes out and grabs stones and hurls them at our group. We run.

See how you are? She shouts. You are not Friends.
A Friend does not run from pain inflicted by a Friend!

Therefore is there joy within suffering:
That is the kernel of Friendship.
A Friend is pure gold singing inside the refining fire.

She thrives on fights and misunderstandings
And even madness.

And back the other way again:
A Friend thrives on clarity of vision, too. To see all the kernels clearly.
And have our hands burned with joy and leave no outward mark at all.


:JAL Rumi, 1267; :Coleman Barks, 2006.
A daybook reading for June 20. This year, all years.

She deeply, deeply burned my hands with gold and joy and I feel it every day.


kiota too late for the stars
Moonfire Marion Bridge / Brad

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