Poem #323

I'm burdened by my own short reach and faltering hand

ashamed before the lofty ones who proudly stand.

Unless I grasp a chain of hair to hold me true

I'll raise my head to madness through and through.

Ask my eye about the heavens' turning ways

I count the stars from night to break of days.

In gratitude I kiss the wine cup's rim

for it revealed time's secrets, dim and grim.

What harm if I recite the wine-seller's prayer?

I'm paying tribute to the blessings there.

I'm grateful for my feeble arm's constraint

I lack the strength to harm, to be a saint.

I have a head, like Hafez, drunk with wine

yet hope its grace will make me still divine.