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This is the path of love:
Dark. Long. Dangerous,
with many traps along the way.
Eagerly, seekers mob the road
and fall into the net.
The bait: the Belovéd’s beauty spot,
darkness within her field of light.
The fibers weaving through the net:
threads of her adventurous curls.
Here is where we hold the feast of love.
Pass the cup, drink the wine, yes
drain the glass. Don’t worry about
getting drunk with what’s divine.
Anyone can sigh and moan, complain,
weep to vent their grief. Be proud, silent.
Hide your heart-pain, drink its poison.
Here is the source of light, a sighting of
eternal grace. You are brighter than
Moses down from Sinai, radiant.
The wine at night exalts the morning.
Morning sends the night its dream.
Night and day, the soul delights.
Makhfi, tell me, where does
the feast of God take place?
Where are the celebrants?
The feast is in my soul, in the
hidden chambers of my heart.
