From the Soofies

The black ink I write in Shines,
Reflecting when I stare in it,
the wind I blow isn’t sweet,
it has stories, history in it;
a tone I hear, a note I hear,
a poem broken, like porcelain pieces,
a Poet lost, in the midst of normal,
he can see his death, right here, formal.

The legacy of the Soofies,
the Qawwalli they gave birth to, sung;
is it pain, celebration, or is it exhilaration,
that just keeps enchanting.