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I don’t ask Heaven to make me rich or powerful.
Let me meet the friends of my heart in a secret
garden and live in their love for my portion of days,
an earthly delight that’s nearly divine.
The nightingale’s ecstatic, courting the rose
beginning to bloom in the midst of the garden.
Beauty blooms from the gardener’s sweat, blood.
He’s labored full sun; thorns have torn at his feet.
Beauty is immortal. It lights up the world, shines
through all things born from its luminous joy.
Thank you for this, and for wisdom: teachers who
guide us, lead us. They give us shelter and rest.
Have mercy on us! Consider how tired and
weakened we are. Time has damaged our spirits,
defeated us. Despairing, we seek oblivion.
Save us, don’t let us be defeated again.
The seer knows the unity of good and evil, savors
spring lilies and autumn leaves, remains unshaken
by change, is self-possessed. You can’t teach or
preach to that one. You have no counsel to give.
Follow where love leads, you’ll dwell in the desert
forever. You won’t care about your life, lose it
or keep it. Pain will not matter. Immersed in love’s
ocean, you won’t bother to look for the shore.
Makhfi, flying too boldly, you’re a fledgling falling
out of the nest. Your feeble wings fail you. You’re
flapping your wings, helpless, caught in the snares.
Entangled in doubt, you bemoan your fate.
