GHAZAL 70

 
In this draught all has died except our crop of griefs;
And it flourishes, each day putting on new leaves.

These leaves are not green, they are bright tongues of fire
That glorify the Name of our heart's desire.

In the acceptance of loss is security;
In the perfection of this is purity.

It is no easy matter for a man to become a child—
One must be a hero not to fight back when reviled.

So small the feet, so long the road to travel;
So weak the fingers, so tight the knots to unravel.

So short the arm to pluck the high sweet fruit;
So weak the purpose even though resolute.

No wonder our crop of griefs flourishes day by day,
And we wonder whether we are even on the way.