Hafiz, sing with me. Do you play banjo
or hurdy-gurdy? Can you sing in Polish
or Greek? We never sang around the table,
here in Vermont or anywhere, not even
in Warsaw when we were all pleasantly drunk
on Jarek’s soul-cleansing vodka. What will
it take to make us sing? Hafiz, I need
to know your ecstasy and I can’t drink
that much anymore and if I spin, I fall
down dizzy and sick. I’ll have to make do
with walking while all around me the amber
ash leaves swirl and the maple trees bleed,
and the memory of a great-horned owl sings
from the pines in the woods across the way.
I’ve been rereading the poems of Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky.