Think of all the desire-heated branding-irons of lips that sear
God-Man’s cheek. It makes small suffering of thorns, nails and spear.

Then there is the molten metal of false tears that blister his feet,
And the protestations and prostrations with intent to cheat.

Small wonder that the Cloud of Grace so seldom breaks and pours Rain—
No one is willing to bear the cross of his own kisses’ pain.

The hot stars are cooling to our eyes, but our cool eyes are burning
With millions of desires other than the desire of returning.

We cannot even work out a just and simple economy,
So we bring up our sons for war and our daughters for harlotry.

Our unlove is God-Man’s suffering. Turning would be so easy
If we did not always pick the wrong fruit from the great knowledge-tree.

How sad is God-Man’s journey! He stoops down from his glory for this:
That just one is ready for the wedding-night, for its knowledge and bliss.


More denunciations done with force and originality. The wounds of insincerity and greed are painfully inflicted on the offerer of love. Somehow we have to come to bear the pain of our own false Judas kisses. The night sky brings a cooling beauty but we burn with the swarm of our desires. Social injustice remains rampant in spite of the Advent. God suffers both in us and for us. We lick the sweets that are our poison from the Knowledge Tree.

Baba offers, stoops, suffers, to be ignored and rejected.

The ‘one’ of the last line arrests us. The true knowledge, the blissful union awaits the one with the One.

Francis does his utmost to make the accusations burn.

» ghazal #79 »