His Winter Crop
Seen you heal
A hundred deep wounds with one glance
From Your spectacular eyes.
While your hands, beneath the table,
Pour large bags of salt into the heart-gashes
Of Your most loyal servants.
Dear World, I can offer
An intelligent explanation
For our suffering.
But I really hope it makes sense
To no one here,
And come morning,
You are again at God’s door
With ax and pickets,
Eloquent petitions and complaints.
Think of suffering as being washed.
That is to say,
Hafiz, you are often completely soaked
The only advantage I can see in this
Is the Friend’s long range plan
Is that when the Beloved bursts
The whole world with not turn into
A bright oil wick all at once,
Then divine ash,
And ruin his,