A thousand times we have inscribed paper with your eternal name,
only to have shredded our efforts to praise you in bitter shame.
We long to sing glorious song that delights your grave expression,
and we cry to find the talent that intuits your intimations.
Beloved, it’s not easy having you as our perfect master;
all our efforts to please you are often a perfect disaster!
We need your help in developing a convincing argument,
as to why we should not be in need of perfect atonement!
We have more faith in your forgiveness and divine sense of humor,
than in our bungling acts of sincerity and uninspired stupor!
All the many songs we have written and have never sung to you,
are longing to be revised and rehearsed until pleasing and true.
Beloved, sharpen our wit and love into a pure ghazal:
have mercy on Darvish’s plea to light your face with real dazzle!
