K died from me
in flames of self-destruction,
incinerating himself
down to the bare bones
of September
as I returned from Kebnekaise summit

R died
in the roaring rapids
of alcoholism
before I could bring him
Rumi's sobriety

S died slowly from himself,
though still, physically,
alive, in some very bleak sense,
shaming that concept
with the over-powering word NO
and a dump truck full with cowardice
and self hate

- but G rose
out of the Western Harbour;
a young intellect at 78,
excelling in insight
and a crystalline refinement
of perception, articulation
and oratory fluency;
a contemporary Shams for my Rumi;
a Rumi for my Shams