My Beloved speaks profundities
and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
stumble falsely drunk.
Though His wine warms my heart
and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
I am not subject to it's dance.
I drink too little, too less
for the drunkard I claim to be.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
My Beloved speaks profundities
and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
stumble falsely drunk.
Though His wine warms my heart
and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
I am not subject to it's dance.
I drink too little, too less
for the drunkard I claim to be.
A venture into Sufist imagery
