Divine teacher | Hind Rifai

But You never taught me how to fly

On the balcony, by the Citadel
I watched the circling birds
and I learned how to fly

And You never taught me how to swim
Early mornings,
down by the secret stream
I watched the radiant fish
and I learned how to swim

And You never taught me how to cry
In the Bedouin tents, where the infants die,
I watched tearless mothers
and I learned how to cry

And You never taught me how to dance
In the dusk wind, that from the desert came,
I watched red dust twirl
and I learned how to dance

And You never taught me how to sing
In the vast harem rooms heavy with scent
I watched listless young girls
and I learned how to sing

And You never taught me how to pray
In the scorching heat by the summer gate
I watched the blind beggar
and I learned how to pray

And You never taught me how to love
In torture chambers drenched with sweat and blood
I watched the dying youths
and I learned how to love

And one day, You told me all is "not in jest"
In the cool white halls, after the long wait
I watched faces of pilgrims
and I learned the rest

I learned that all we are, we see or we have done,
Has no Truth; only the One.
All of life's purpose is just to view,
the manifold Splendors of You.

(c) Hind Rifai

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