Oh my heart, sing of the gardens which you have never known!
Those which are frozen in glass, clear, unreachable.
Water and roses of Isfahan, or Shiraz,
Give blessed song, give praise equal to none.
Oh my heart, give evidence that they have not spared you,
And that it is you who are intended, and it is for you that they ripen their figs.
That it is you who ply between their blossoming boughs,
Like a face, in the rousing winds.
Avoid the mistake of imagining some deprivation,
For the decision has been taken: to be!
Silk thread, weave your way into the fabric!
Whatever the image with which you have become one
(even if it be but a moment from a life of pain),
Feel that the whole carpet, so worthy of praise, is intended!
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet