I wait here where I have so often sat,
pen poised and notebook at the ready.
The green chair fits my body's weary contours
just as the covered couch lets you relax .
Qashqa'i shekarlu , from the lion weaving tribe,
the rug upon it droops down to the floor.
Your arm hangs listless following its curve .

That rug has carried many lion dreams
as the women wove and wove its ancient pattern
and now it takes into its coloured brightness
the revelations that your dreams give me.

Sometimes, I also muse on what it tells of me --
Why , I sometimes ask , did I choose that pattern ?
Do I see myself as a lion , fiercely bearded
and waiting to pounce on the patient's running dream ?
What dreams of my own shall I let , uncaged ,
run with loping lion strides across the plain ,
thighs driving through the infinite distances
that stretch to horizons both behind him and before ?
Stop !
It is your dreams , deep and tightly woven
that I must think upon. Show me enough of them
that I will be able to provide you with release .
Not now the time to unravel the warp and weft
of the patterned cloth that wraps around my core .
I fear the echo of the tawny lion's roar.