Though fate a thousand times makes you a pawn in its game—do not give up:
Cling like a child to the skirt of your Beloved’s name.
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There are many gods and one God. How shall we find him?
The search is not ours; foot without nerve-message is a dead limb.
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All the world loves a lover; from his lips their song is sung.
Youth is the time of greenness; but age should gild a man’s tongue.
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We have stolen our eyes to admire the passing clouds,
And sold our fingers to seamstresses to sew our shrouds.
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You warned us that on this path was nothing but pain,
And we glibly assented, but now we complain.
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Since sleeplessness has befriended me I have begun to admire the stars—
The patterned silver stitches in the blue coat my Beloved wears.
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Poets are queer fellows who go to a lot of trouble
Trying to describe to us their particular bubble.
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How can you even think of yourself as a poet
Unless when the banjos ring you can heel-and-toe it?
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To love is something other than what the word-mongers say.
Their words are cries of pigeons as the guns blaze away.
Click here to read the full ghazal #13 and commentary.