Before the quill of Love was set in motion,
Our lives were spent in paperwork.
Page after page turned black,
Like separation’s somber night, from time’s events,
And still the Book of Love did not reach its end,
Though a hundred thousand pages were covered.
Measured by the Lover’s worth, paper’s value
Seemed insignificant, like so many leaves in the wind.
When love made clear
The quill’s weakness,
In jealousy it washed away
Whatever had been written.
- by Dr. Javad Nurbakhsh, from The Truths of Love: Sufi Poetry