With Cup in Hand

With cup in hand, the Beloved one day walked into the Winehouse.
And with only a wink, intoxicated all those already drunk with wine.

The hoofprint of Your horse looked like the shape of the new moon,
And Your shadow shrunk the size of the cypress pine to human scale.

Can I say truly: ‘I exist,’ when I don’t know my true Self?
Can I truly say: ‘I don’t,’ when I’m expecting The Divine?

When You got up to leave, the hearts of those in the Winehouse sank.
When You sat back down, the cheer that went up was deafening.

If any perfume smells like musk, it’s because it was near Your hair.
If indigo is used to draw a fine blue rainbow, it was taken from the brow
Of Your eyes.

My life is like a candle that has burned all night, and has burned away:
And like the burned moth, I will not rest until I see the light of day.

O Beloved, come back, so that Hafez’s spent life will be returned to him;
Like an arrow, against all of nature, shot from his drunken bow.



– Version by: Thomas Rain Crowe