Your heart has turned to granite, and what good will granite do you?
A wineglass can’t be filled with rock. It breaks into pieces.
So you laugh at the dawn to have Venus fill your desire.
Lust has bared its breast and all discernment flees the scene.
Seeing this, restraint lets loose the reins of wild, wild horses.
With equanimity and insight gone, only passion remains, howling and inflamed.
When cut off from the fine wine, some will look for rotgut in the gutter.
Although their livers turn lethargic, they are fast and reckless on this path.
And because of all this monkey business, we’ve lost our minds to our emotions.
Love is true intent; poetry is the rhythm of its expression.
Beware, for the prince goes galloping every morning on a raid.
Leave this loneliness and separation. Its terror brings about pointless theories and doctrines.
The leader has fled. Crier, be silent. Descend from your minaret.
~transcreated from an Arberry translation (A-301) of a Rumi ghazal (F-2357)
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