This court I that have come to
is without resplendent wealth.
She ranks highest
who serves the most;
he’s entrusted
who deserts his post,
vanishing
himself.
This King that I have come to
doesn’t wear a crown.
He holds my hand
to his lips,
takes my burden,
makes it his;
wears blame–
no gown.
This Queen that I have come to–
no vain gems at all.
The first to rise,
she sweeps the floor;
for each courtier
holds the door;
and poverty’s
her shawl.
This table I have come to
is one big begging bowl.
Each thinks her
(or him) not me;
mixed with wine
herb courtesy;
and no name’s
on the roll.
This garden I have come to
grows nothing that’s not Love’s.
Unlikely seeds
take their place,
watered here
with tender grace–
Mevlana’s
little buds.
