This being human is a guest house —Rumi
I threw open wide the door and every window
Hung out a sign: “Guest House. All Are Welcome”
And they came in unbroken procession,
Tapping my shoulder, hoping for a conversation
Or at least a glance, a nod of recognition.
I did not speak, though well acquainted with them all.
I watched the door,
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This being human is a guest house —Rumi
I threw open wide the door and every window
Hung out a sign: “Guest House. All Are Welcome”
And they came in unbroken procession,
Tapping my shoulder, hoping for a conversation
Or at least a glance, a nod of recognition.
I did not speak, though well acquainted with them all.
I watched the door, waiting for the guest of honour
I sat and waited, waited only for you.
You arrive as one coming home, familiar with this place
No fanfare, no red carpet, you simply take a seat
Across the table from the place where I have waited.
And I look, over the flowers I gathered for you
And see myself, looking at the flowers I gathered for me.
I build another door that all the guests might come and freely go
But I remain, in this house, the guest of honour.
— India Taylor
