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My path never led to the gate of communion.
My hungry eyes never fed on the sight of your
blessed face. My sighs spell unsatisfied desire.
My tears flood and fall like rain. I summon
memory: the garden where we met but —
heart’s sorrow — where we meet no more.
Why bother with privilege, wealth, or rank?
I turn away from all that the world prizes.
In these humble days, I hold my cup of fate
to be as precious as the wine of kings.
No matter how much you water this desert
with your tears, Makhfi, no flowers bloom.
Why do learned men debate God’s mercy?
Creation is the proof of his compassion.
