And at night they close Rumi's museum(for this is what they call his mosque since Ataturk)And a Sufi in green praying at the doorBought a poor vendor's entire store of tomatoesSo he would not sleep hungry(And he wasn't even a Turk, he was American 

The cloth is torn Come love, bring me a needle The needle of love For the torn cloth of friendship, my friend, my love.Let us make love one last time ... 

Such is the magic of Hoshang's poetry. In and out of cultures, countries, homes and beds, Hoshang has his innocence and spirit undimmed. And both shine through luminously in these poems. These poems contextualize Sufism for the twenty-first century using the wisdom and music of the East. This is indeed a glorious addition to the growing list of new world poetry.