I run from the rotting stench of my precious thought,
but cannot find the pure, sweet breeze of “I am not”!
The sweet grace of lord and master will set me free,
when I submit myself to grace and cease to be.
For now, God help us to learn the high circus arts,
like how to make a lion laugh and monkey fart.
Perhaps, the Master will be inclined to believe,
we are useful to his pleasure and deserve reprieve.
We hang out around his court by all contrived means,
and never with complaint about the refried beans.
We understand no man has ever petitioned love,
except at beauty’s feet with the Beloved tall above.
There are few things about which Darvish has no clue;
the most regrettable is how to his foul mind eschew.