Last night’s storm was a journey to the Beloved.
I surrender to that, the wind that
is my Friend, and my work.
Each night, the lightning flashes.
Every morning, a breeze.
Not in some protected place, but in the flood
of the heart’s pumping, in the wind
of a rosebud’s opening out,
that puts a small crown on each narcissus.
A tired hand collapses, exhausted,
that in the morning holds your hair again.
Peace comes when we are friends together,
remembering. Hafiz! Your honest desire
and your benevolence free the soul
to emerge as what it is.
From: ‘The Hand of Poetry’ Trans. Inayat Khan/Coleman Barks