Darvish Khan Writes

the eternal living ancient one is your best friend;
he is the one on whom life after life you can depend.

he is more loyal to you than your own faithful shadow,
which vanishes into the night like a murder of crows.

it is his brightness that gives the sun such royal lustre,
which light is but a gross brilliance and dull impostor!

we thirst for the truth because it is also supreme bliss;
anything less is both a foul lie and a treacherous kiss.

but how can the humanity of his charm be described?
his human qualities cannot be easily transcribed!

it is not that he is only glorious and fantastic,
but that he is simply and most wholly authentic.

when darvish walks in silent companionship,
he finds the friend beside him sharing his friendship.

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we swear by the hard earth that supports us,
and by the dust that crowns us at last;

by the breath that infuses us with life,
and inspires us with good and honest strife;

by the fire that gives our body and mind light,
and cooks our food and comforts us at night;

by the water that makes all life vibrant,
and our land fruitful, happy and verdant;

we swear by the womb by which all takes birth,
and by the love that triumphs over death.

we lift our hands in praise of your presence,
and proudly laugh at time’s swift senescence.

darvish finds in nature your real mercy:
all that passes speaks of your true glory!

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This poet cries out with praise the love of Hafezian rendi:
to seize the day with an unabashed joy like a malamati!

We have no problem with wild and drunken, naked riot:
our playful beloved is pure and chaste, sober and quiet!

To be sure, we have utterly no need for an audience;
we live out our passion in the lost heart’s joyous silence.

To the coy lover with long curly hair we turn our face;
to receive any other would be real everlasting disgrace!

Tonight, with the moon rising on the glistening sea shore,
the waves wash the mind until we hear the world no more.

The hum of her voice caresses the breast with a cool light;
the lilt of her speech teases the heart with a cruel delight.

Darvish walks the path of blame with a deep belly laugh:
but for the girl with long black hair life is a bitter gaffe!

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Ishi was the last of his people in a world gone mad;
the gold rush of forty nine had sealed their fate plenty bad.

He was the last, the only one, stumbling in abject grief;
tribal genocide, in his person, confounded belief.

That the American way of life is built on such tragedy,
is more than enough to make a feeling man giddy.

We swagger on to manifest our infernal destiny:
to rape and pillage this land until nature mutinies.

Modern times sanitizes our shit but poisons our water;
we bury the stink but swallow to our slow slaughter.

Outer space is the last frontier for the demented Texan,
until the clutter of orbiting rubbish smashes lexan.

Ishi means man and he found himself in a strange orbit:
to make friends with a homicidal race from a weird planet.

No tears fall from Darvish’s face about the fate of tribal life:
spirit warriors take birth again and again in renewed strife!

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the american book of the dead celebrates culture;
it is our holy text dedicated to the noble vulture.

this text is read to us each night to promote a clear mind;
it is a priceless guide to help us the right prescription find.

we would all be lost without the guidance of wise voices,
helping us to unerringly make the right choices.

the dying require soothing wisdom to dispel confusion,
and to rest in calm attention without delusion.

the highest duty of a mature and spiritual land,
is to place those with our deepest welfare in command.

preparing to die well is an american passion;
our advanced way of living is not a matter of fashion.

darvish stays up late into the long night listening in bed,
to the mercy of tv ads comforting the dying and dead.

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when the earth trembles, it’s not just an earthquake:
but some huge sleeping serpent beginning to wake.

the time of reckoning has come when buildings wobble:
what lies deep within is promising to make trouble!

now is the time to make friends with a fiery dragon;
and now the time for deadly fun to brilliantly begin.

how you think and act at the time of present death,
makes a difference with how you breathe your last breath.

the point is to always be prepared to happily die;
karma will be plowed back under to sprout and thrive.

life chases death just as much as death chases life:
karma slits your throat but you, then thirst for the knife!

darvish has carefully considered the power of snakes;
he would rather die first- and then with laughter shake!

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