Praise

Those unable to grieve,

Or to speak of their love,

Or to be grateful, those

Who can’t remember God

As the source of everything,

Might be described as a vacant wind,

Or a cold anvil, or a group

Of frightened old people.

Say the name, moisten your tongue

With praise, and be the spring ground,

Waking. Let your mouth be given

Its gold-yellow stamen like the wild rose’s.

As you fill with wisdom,

And your heart with love,

There’s no more thirst.

There’s only unsolved patience

Waiting on the doorsill, a silence

That doesn’t listen to advice

From people passing in the street.

By Hakim Sanaie

Source: Poetry-chaikhana.com

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