The world is no more than the Beloved’s single face,
In the desire of the One to know its own beauty, we exist.
Each place, each moment, sings its particular song of not-being and being.
Without reason, the clear glass equally mirrors wisdom and madness.
Those who claim knowledge are wrong; prayer just leads to trance,
Appearance and faith are mere lees in the Unknowing Wine.
Wherever the Footprint is found,
that handful of dust holds the oneness of worlds.
This earth, burnished by hearing the Name, is so certain of Love
That the sky bends unceasingly down, to greet its own light.
On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound ...
Hell, we might have pronounced you a saint,
if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!
