Pockets

There are little pockets in the heart,
Pockets sewn with love, pockets sewn with hurt,
Some days the pockets overflow and the heart is flooded with them,
While the ripples of love are refreshing and calming,
Hurt is like oil slick that floats on water killing everything around it,
Fish of feelings are first to die, and as they hit the shore of wounded eyes,
The foam of salt runs and runs and runs, blinding and binding all the pockets as one,
Till only hurt remians and colours the heart.

The Song of the Sufi Masroof