What happens in the world, what business of that is yours?
Two existences have merged in a single temple, but where is your smiling image?
Granted, there are terrible famines
with no bread dipped in wine anywhere.
You control what is manifest and what is hidden. Where is your warehouse of grain?
Granted, thorn, scorpion and snake exist. But where is your rose-petal bed, your joy that is a deep rest.
Granted, human generosity has dried up, but you could still give us a pension and a silk robe.
Granted, the sun and moon go down daily into hell, but not your light and your fire.
Granted, the jeweller has nothing to sell. He stands by his empty stall. You could rain down pearls, if you chose.
Granted, there is no mouth, or any language, but where is your surging impulse?
Come with me while the wine shop is still open. We are dizzy with meeting each other.
Friend inside my chest and inside my hand, find your coat and your turban, if you have not gone completely senile.
Whores have stolen your hat and carried off your clothes. Who will take care of you now?
A stranger blocks us. You could be the arresting officer in this matter, the judge, and the gallows, if that were your inclination.
Word-scatterer, hush this conversation. Say instead silence to those who never talk.