by Seth Laffey
17 Ramadan, 1427
Oct. 10, 2006
I seek a garden where the heart's repose
Will not be shaken by the winter's blast
And where the flower of Contentment blows--
Not suffering that I weep for what has past
Nor quake with anxious dread on what shall come
Nor hide my face away from current trials.
I beg you not to beckon me to such
Delusive weeds as sprout in rancid files
In cracks of mid-day streets for all and some
I don't esteem such trinkets' value much.
Many seekers there have been and are that turn
From what they can't imagine with their sense
They light their passions up and let them burn
And fancy that their burning is incense--
As if their self-consumption's somehow holy!
That the scent it leaves upon the air is sweet!
My vision once, indeed, was such as theirs.
Oh brothers! your phoenix dreams are self-deceit
Your cold, dead ashes are most melancholy
Remnants of bathetic, tired affairs.
But the garden I seek where my flower lives
That is so rare and secret in this life
Is only by decree of Him Who Gives,
Found only in a heart that's grasped the knife
And died a martyr in its Master's cause--
Then having perished once, just like the earth
That lies through dead of winter like a corse,
Unconscious of volition, joy or dearth
It is revived to joy in Allah's laws
Dead only now to self, without remorse.