Poem #356

If I can rise to sit beside my Friend divine

I'll pick the rose of joy and drink the union's wine.

That bitter, Sufi-burning wine will steal my wits away

come, Saki, lip to lip, and take my soul today.

I shall go mad with passion, lost in this endless swoon

I dream of fairies sleeping, and speak to the waking moon.

Your lips gave sugar to the drunks, your eyes gave wine to all

but I am left with neither, outside the banquet hall.

Each speck of dust the wind brings near finds grace from you, it seems

remember your old servant, lost in his ancient dreams.

Not every poet's verse can please the hearts of men

I caught a rare and royal bird with my ink-scented pen.

Ask China's master painter if you doubt my art is true

Mani himself would beg to copy what my pen can do.

To speak the truth and keep one's faith is not for every clod

I serve the Asaf of the age, the Glory of Truth and God.

Ask me, not preachers, what the rogue's wild secrets mean

I drink with Moon and Pleiades, in a realm unseen.