There is a high lake in the snowy mountains to which I would airlift
All sons of bitches who mislead simple people by their gab’s gift.

There I would strip them and dip them in the clear waters to purify them
And bid them walk home; the march, and love, would, or would not, revivify them.

What a fine world it would be if all the sons of bitches became sons of God,
To join in the stars’ song and labor lovingly towards the whim of his nod!

What a fine time we would have! What grand fiestas
To stitch the old fear-wounds and heal the heart-blisters!

But think of the queues stretching across the world to the Beloved’s door!
But God’s vineyard would be vast, and there could be no limit to the wine he could pour.

Think of the poet-musicians and dancers all competing
For the smile of his eyes and the wave of his hand in greeting!

At work, craftsmen and statesmen would exhibit new love precisions,
And, ‘There but for grace goes—’ would determine all legal decisions.


Bad times demand drastic remedies. A universal baptism is needed particularly in an icy lake.

A nice fresh and humorous vision of what might be. If only people woke up! The rule of love wold replace the law. All labouring to get the true boss’s nod of approval. The unlimited resources of the Avatar can easily cater for the multitudes. ‘there but for grace goes’ ( I ) is a reminder all saints and sinners depend on grace.

» ghazal #134 »