I have
Seen You heal
A hundred deep wounds with one glance
From Your spectacular eyes,

While your hands, beneath the table,
Pour large bags of salt into the heart-gashes
Of Your most loyal servants.

Dear world, I can offer
An intelligent explanation
For our suffering,
But I hope it really makes sense
To no one here,
And come morning,
You are again at God’s door
With ax and pickets,
Eloquent petitions and complaints.

Think of suffering as being washed.

That is to say,

Hafiz, you are often completely soaked

And dripping.


The only advantage I can see in this

In the Friend’s long-range plan

Is that when the Beloved bursts

Into ecstatic flames 

This whole world will not turn into

A bright oil wick all at once

Then divine ash,

And ruin His 




– His Winter Crop, Hafiz, trans. Ladinsky

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