The only prayer of the heart is the Master’s name:
To beg this or that from him is a twisted game.
To pay another to petition the Ancient One,
Is to forego his embrace and his presence shun.
No relic compares to the spiritual power
Of the heart repeating his name at all hours.
Light a candle in the niche of your remembrance,
And let his name rise and resound with pure cadence.
The wolf in sheep’s clothing ba-ba’s for another,
As the lambs are led on and on to their slaughter.
The Master has said: surrender your bloody mind
At my feet, not to huckster halfwits glib and blind!
Darvish enjoys his conversations with the Friend;
Would he have a hack compose his ghazals for him?