At the gates of the tavern I saw the
angels knock
Kneaded this clay we call human, and made it
talk.
The residents of the Celestial Court
and the heavenly bloc
Drank from the Wine of Love, with me, upon
our common walk.
The earth and the skies could not keep
this trust of the clock
Yet the poor insane me was stuck with such
tough luck.
People find good reason for the wars
in which they are stuck
Since Truth they cannot see, to fantasies
they would flock.
In our midst, thank God, the dogs of
war are put in chain and lock
The angels gratefully drink,
gracefully dance, from block to block.
Fire is not a flickering glow that a
candle flame would mock
Fire is the flame of a heap of moths that
lightning has just struck.
None like Hafiz, the mask of deceitful
intellect can pluck
Till the hair of Bride of Verses was brushed
lock after lock.
© Shahriar Shahriari
Los
Angeles, Ca
October 23, 1998
