Love Plays Its Miracles Poem by Sibghatullah Khan

Love plays its miracles;
it can do all kinds of things:
When you are sick and sad,
it lifts you up from the blues and sings
summer songs and, like a Santa Claus,
toys you up with secret gifts
bringing rainbows to your downcast eyes.

Love is like Christ:
It touches and heals the bruised souls
when life, like a spider in ambush,
traps you unawares in its webs;
when stress and strife sicken,
and sorrows don't come in single spies,
it suddenly comes and liberates.

Like that Greek king,
it turns everything to gold by touch:
when life is like a beggar walking in rags;
when its palate, like a desert wanting in rain,
is dead and dry, it comes to comfort
and feed life on its own kind of manna,
and makes it rich.

Love really plays its miracles:
It keeps things going and, like Hope,
it lies there buried under a load of ills;
it consoles when you think it's too much,
and you're gonna give way,
Elixir-like it comes in a flash,
dries up the wounds and makes you stick on.

Love, you know, is God:
It is always near and always there,
lying folded like tulips in your heart
ere they blossom-a gossamer casket breathing:
When you're through your everyday haste,
You can feel its absence around your neck-
like the absence of Death.