Only when your springs are bleak, ashen winters
and your summer rain
is tinged with a lasting, swathing sadness
and the hematic rose-tint of sorrow
blinds your frosty days.
Only when the once wild, rare bird
inebriated on the wrath of repentance
gladly sheds her feathers, one by one,
Refusing to ever fly again
Only when the dancing fluency
of the nye and the flute
echo the broken chambers
of your heart.
When even in your dreams
you wake up lonely.
When even in spring
your once lush,
fertile, sensuous forested garden
shed their leaves and flowers, one by one,
anemic, colorless, yellowed with loss
When you can only smell
sadness and sorrow
On the easterly wind.
When the poet breaks his writer’s pen
And burns all his nectarine pages, one by one
Scattering sooty poetic ashes in the wind
And replaces his devotion
With piety for the beaten wine cup.
When despair is your Bedouin desert tent
Sheltering you from the
Wretchedness and grief
Of your melancholy, sickly soul’s
the graceful dervish’s dance for salvation
your weary soul
but can no longer find
on a single inch of this twirling earth.
You know you have loved,
Hawzhin Azeez, Azizakam (my beloved)