poetry

The sky is a belt woven from our tattered lives. The mighty river was formed by all the tears  our eyes have shed. Hell is a spark from our  searing pain. Heaven is a breath drawn from our  moments of peace. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 92

They say that drunkards are consigned to hell; but that makes no sense and the heart cannot  accept it. If lovers and lushes are going to hell, tomorrow heaven will be as empty as my hand. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 67

I don’t drink wine for sheer enjoyment nor to corrupt my morals nor for irreligion or bad character. I want to tame my carnal soul and make it selfless. That’s why I drink and why I get drunk Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 66

Even though my sins  have jinxed me and made me unlovely I have not lost hope, like a pagan in his temple. But in the wee hours when I sober up I want wine and a lover whether heaven or hell Translared by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 65

Your evil self is like  a household dog,  barking for no good reason. It is like a fox  dreaming of a rabbit. It roars like a tiger and is tricky as a wolf. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 61

Every heart in which  the light of love shines– whether worshipper in a mosque or member of a church– and those who write their names in the book of passion are liberated from hell and free of paradise. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 58

I am not suited to the mosque nor fitted to the church The Lord knows  what he made my clay from. I am like an atheist mystic or an ugly prostitute: Neither religion nor worldliness, and no hope of paradise. Translared by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 58

My creed is to drink wine and be happy; my faith is to be devoid of unbelief and religion. I said to the bride of fate, “How big a diamond would you like?” She said, “My diamond is your joyous heart.” Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 58

We are pagans of love; the orthodox are something else. We are like puny ants; the splendor of Solomon is something else. Our faces are sallow and our clothing is tattered; the fine linens at the boutique are something else. Translated by Juan Cole from [pdf] Whinfield 57