lover position

I was numb when I raised my finger to her house bell. Paralysis restricted my step when I was about to walk just an inch from the place of my patience to the place where she was sitting. And a man with an iron tongue said to me: You must perform ablution with fire before you enter the sanctuary of love. I sat in his arms as a child, and he trained me not to trust the heart or the mind, because both are against him. The ember that he carried and put in my mouth was the ember of the word honesty, and it is the word that I am afraid to say in public, lest the bored will rise and start cutting down trees for fun. Or that the desperate revolt and demolish the thatched houses on their heads. And I, before I became a hand that always extended to embrace, was a feather in the wing of a phoenix, or perhaps a claw of a bird pursued by arrows whenever it sings against misfortune, and against its habitual persistence in lost souls.
He also said to me: In love, do not stick your postage stamp on the back of a turtle, for your letters will never reach it. And in the mail of love, you have to become an ambulance driver who crosses all the red lines and no one blames him. And when you are the first to reach infinity, you may discover yourself there and for the first time know your meaning. And I listened to him, yes, but I am not a messenger of a new civilization, and I do not regret the repetition of days in regret because I was born in them, but because the books of philosophers have exhausted me and I have not found in them what I sought after. And if I had been told to carry the sword to fight evil, I would have stabbed myself first. That is because the sea of ​​love has no islands in which to escape, nor does it have a tide to deposit the ship of my voyage in it.
Today, when it is said in the news that people are blind, if they love they see. I say that insight is the goal of the lover, and reaching the level of disclosure is the goal of his goal. And for that, I collect sick words in a rusty box and throw them into the sea. I open the abandoned dictionaries and search in them for the word (certainty) to carry it as a torch in the darkness of thoughts, suspicions and doubts. Here I am in poems, an aversion to the ordinary and a departure from the constraint of connotation and its direct and simple meaning. And here I am in the novels, a hero who alone faces a thousand mirrors, and he has to defeat them all, or else his weakness will kill him. The lover does not care at all except for the path, and he realizes its infinity. It seeks only deliverance from the questions that captivate the soul and spread despair in its flanks. There is no salvation except by erasing sick thoughts from the mind, and replacing them with the light of a distant moon.