Firewater Poem by Sadiqullah Khan

Bon vivants is saffroned firewater in ice-steaming kettle
Sweating warmth on a woven wool-thread's dye
From the sheep skin's, through the fingers
Mother's faith in the stern weaver's destiny, set apart.
The poverty of self, -fuqr, is the ultimate grace -
While that would let you, its own demise
Unless you be the Supreme Being, in unity
But since you are not, therefore in your death
You are eternal, whether you live or die.
He who was called the sun, lived in taverns,
He soiled his hands, gathering roses, and drew a mat,
Locking the door outside, that none should know
The wandering man is the -qutb, taught in ‘the ways',
And in ruins, -khirabat, meets the little women.
For the death unto your carnal self, you live
A life shone with the mockery of the outward, and
Vastness, an eagle's eye look for, or beneath the sea
The bird with sharp wings, the moment he sights moon.
For the pleasure of the loom's arm's dance to and fro -
The cotton bud lives on the cloak's embroidered fold
The silk shines on the love's hair, extract of grape is wine.

Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
July 22,2014.