From now on the nightingales
will sing of us sitting here outdoors, where wind lifts the hair of the willow
and starts her dancing.
God knows what they say to each other then.
The plane tree holds out its broad hands
in praise of the meadow, understanding just a little of the passion of the grass.
I ask the rose, Where did you get such skin? She laughs. How could she answer? She is drunk, but not enough to say secrets, not so dissolute as I am.
Wander with drunks if you want to know
what they have been hiding.
They will open the purse-mouth
and spend the lavishness.
There is a wine fermenting in the breast of a mystic, and a voice there inviting you to a banquet.
A human breast can give milk, but also wine, and also there is a flowing there that tells stories.
Listen, as you take in the milk, and then the wine, and then the stories.
Lay down your cap and your cloak. Start talking from the majesty itself.
And now be quiet. Very few will hear.
Most copper does not change to gold
for any philosopher’s stone.
Bring your words to Shams. Let sunlight mix with language and be the world.