There is melody within a noisy river
that only a thirsting man knows.
Only those whose fore-arms are scarred by thorns
have felt the pleats of the fragrant rose.
Dry parchment seeks the stream of the ink
like a cube of sugar seeks a tongue’s sweetness
An audience is nectar to the silent poet
it is tea and poetry that listen to the pleas of guests.
Empty barrels wait patiently at harvest time
Sun, rain, and clay have crept up the vine
The grapes are drunk with longing for the vintner
This is how love ripens into intoxicating wine.
We wandering beggars need a host’s respite
as much as an innkeeper needs his sojourners,
who never seem to stay long in the caravanserai,
for the closest companion of the thirsty is thirst.
