A Poet Or A Crow

I must be pure, else what weight will my words carry?

Or what be their worth?

If the lamp won’t light my own courtyard,

How’ll it illuminate the world?

I must be pure, to the exclusion of all else, all cunning,

If there are different faces behind my one face,

Words will simply be words, loving or wrathful, prayerful or fearful,

Deep or deceptive, depending upon my mood,

Then what difference can there be between a poet and a crow?

Dipping my intellectual beak into the sea of His love,

Shaking droplets and pearls alike,

I’ll remain thirsty, cawing from rooftops.

The Song of the Sufi Masroof