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57 Indian Hospice Yesterday, it rained so hard lemons spilt from the lemon tree and rolled over cobblestones in my Jerusalem courtyard. I thought of Baba Farid Who came on a pilgrimage centuries ago. In a hole cut from rock by the room where I sleep, He stood for forty days and nights Without food or drink. nothing for him was strange In the way his body slipped into a hole in the ground, and nothing was not. rust in the stones and blood at the rim of his tongue. In the humming dark He heard bird beaks stitching webs of dew, Sharp hiss of breath let out from a throat, Whose throat he did not know. Was it his mother crying O Farid, where are you now? It’s what she did when he swung Up and down, knees in a mango tree, Head in the mouth of a well, Singing praises to God. Crawling out of his hole, welts on his cheeks, and underfoot in bedrock—visionary recalcitrance. a lemon tree wobbled in a high wind. Under it, glistening in its own musk, the black iris of abu dis. 58 Wild with the scents of iris and lemon he sang—O Farid This world is a muddy garden, Stone, fruit, and flesh all flaming with love. ...

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