The Poet

In lands of East, the bed of reeds For pipe, the breath of minstrel needs; O poet, let me this much know, ʺIf you have breath in breast, or no?

If nationʹs self grows too much weak By chains of bondage and much meek, It need not hear the Persian strains, For these will only add to pains.

If flask of glass shines like the day, Or is a pitcher made from clay: Like sharpness of a sword of steel To palate must its relish feel.

There is no land or home on earth Beneath this spinning azure dome, Where one without great stress and strain The thrones of Jam and Kai may gain.

On Loveʹs way numerous Mounts Sinai appear God manifests Himself so clear, May stage of Love for ever last And may not come to end too fast!