Darvish Khan Writes

I, the lost one, find my way to the ocean’s shore,
where none can hear my grief above the surf’s roar.

I would drown at once the sound of my own thought-
I would die now and forever to all that can be taught.

The ocean wave rises, threatens and then crashes;
spirit brightens as rolling water softly caresses.

All truth is revealed in the pure and virgin sand,
washed clean of all mark left by unnatural hand.

I read the scattered omens of shell, wood and stone:
only by the songbird’s cry can this blame be undone.

My grief shapes slowly into verse that disappears
along the curving ocean shore of bitter tears.

Darvish walks and walks to find the lost silence
that reveals again the beloved Master’s presence.

Line in italics by Francis Brabazon

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I raise my glass to the only divine lover;
I drink to the dregs the wine he may offer.

There is no taste I prefer to his presence;
my eyes have no light save his effulgence.

I have no motion but for his rhythm:
all life springs from his ancient whim.

Hunger gnaws daily until beauty’s embrace-
all thirst is for sight of his compassionate face.

My tears are a lake I would gladly drown in,
but for the pity induced by such a sin.

My only hope is the pain of despair:
I will not find him until I forsake all care.

Darvish has no friend but the deep blue sky;
Yet, what he loves, always remains close by.

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Green grows the heart’s longing, vines on fire
Breathing your name in love’s ascending gyre.

Green grows the longing heart skyward, bright
Tongues of flame praising the sweet Word of light.

Your name, your bright name is our dawn laughter
That rises and resounds to announce the Master.

Starlight dreams its way into sleeping stone,
Becomes the gold hammered into your throne.

The car that carries you across the sky
Sings your bright name of mercy as it flies.

Meher is light spilling infinite bliss
On all galaxies throughout the universe.

The tangle of wild roses in Darvish’s heart
Have bloodied him with thorn and graceful art.

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O Shiva, how we long for your ecstatic dance;
how we long for the end of our mayavic trance!

All the world rotting and little but a high stench;
when will the Master his fragrant grace relinquish?

All the ice melting drop by drop, but our thirst
increases more and more like some biblical curse.

This is the end of days, when man becomes a beast
and slays the child to provide for anger a raw feast.

If only greed were a burnt offering to fatten fire
to celebrate the rhapsodic death of brute desire!

Dance Shiva your fiery dance that ignites the heart
and burns from the mind the filth that keeps us apart.

Darvish longs for the Master’s sweet rhythmic embrace
as they dance in the inferno of the Master’s grace.

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