I am the slave of the Perfect Master who is without birth;
I am devoted to the Friend of joyous and robust mirth.
Only the saint remembers the dull pain of sleeping stone-
the world snarls and gnashes over raw and bloody bone.
By grace of His glance, and millions of hungry lives,
the soul leaves the beast-cage and at man-form arrives.
Now he snarls but mostly whines with articulate speech;
he walks on two legs and with vanity begins to preach.
O the pride of man as he imagines that he now can think,
when he has only just realized that his turd in fact stinks.
Now begins the long journey of grinding mind back to dust,
and of submitting to God as Beauty in rapt, loving trust.
Darvish has fallen in love with the Master of Masters,
whose divine sense of humor transfigures all disasters.
