Darmānam Makon: Heal me not!

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For as long as You can delay, please
                      Heal me not!
Seek no solution to any of my problems
                      Relieve me not!

See me suffering yet hear my screams not
See my pain ever so clearly and yet
                      Heal me not!

Except with insults and harshness call me not
Except with the edict of pain and sorrow
                       Ordain me not!

If Your will is to kill me not with sorrows
With the ailment of abandonment
                       Infect me not!

If you are determined to spill my blood
Other than with Your own blade
                       Slaughter me not!

With my miserable crimes bother not
Thus because of my petty crimes
                        Punish me not

If I had done a sin forgive me now
And even if a mistake was done
                         Brutalize me not!

For as long as Araqi aching with Separation
Converse with me via pain and yet
                          Heal me not!



These are the Farsi moans of a Persian Sufi billowing upon the whiteness of the paper and my blind eyes, some 700 years later, behold the same Creole screams weltering upon the darkness of the Haitian skin. Facing the Presence of The Royal Highness ‘Why me?’ is absolutely out of question, therefore my love ask me not why I am in Haiti!

What I thought was the Haitian moans ended up being the screams of the ‘Path’ calling my name: Dara this way. Upon this Path cannot take along neither ‘I’ nor my Self, all that can be taken along is the oozing gashed wound of That Beloved’s loss. So understand my love I could not have taken you along...

And because of the latter the Araqi screams: Darmānam Makon (Heal me not!).

Either be on the Path wounded by the amorous blade of That Beloved or live the analgesic life of a loveless zombie off the Path.

© 2005-2002,  Dara O. Shayda