O Nameless Grace Poem by Mystic Qalandar

O nameless grace,
bloom of eternal light descending upon my face—
O desert rose!

Honeybees, with anklets bound to their feet,
intoxicated by the fragrance of your delicate being,
devoted to your every grace and gesture,
singing songs of love,
are drawn irresistibly toward you.

In hope of your warm embrace
they pass through the harsh valleys of toil.
For the sake of one touch of your delicate being
they bear every hardship, smiling—
for beyond every law, every measure, every reckoning,
your love is a rare and royal treasure.

In the rose-garden of love,
despite the flames of the contrary wind,
these enamored bees,
carrying the trust of honey's essence upon their frail shoulders,
passing through thorns and afflictions,
present before the Queen of the hive
an offering of devotion and faithfulness.

Just so, a poet,
hearing love's echoing call from the hidden chambers of the heart,
pours out his blood upon the page of love
and adorns the form of his beloved
with hues of crimson and azure.

Then, in the backdrop of the garden of imagination,
a ruby and a sapphire fall into conversation—
the ruby, before the moles upon your cheek,
loses all its lustre,
and the sapphire
melts with envy
at the swaying wave of your curling locks.

The cupbearer of the tavern of love's wine,
seeing that I mingle the blood of my own liver into his wine,
cries out in ecstasy:
'Carry my greeting of love to that poet of the heart—
for this wine of love, which has been my trust since pre-eternity,
I wish to pour into none but his cup.
He has given the wine such kinship with the blood of his liver
that this gift has now become his rightful due.'

O reader—read.
And O listener—listen.

The magic of my love-steeped pen—
for my beloved,
a single drop of tears
is sweet today, and was sweet yesterday too.

No herb can heal,
no remedy can hide the pain—
neither study nor ritual,
neither incantation nor prayer.

Either grant me the courage
to stand firm against this trial,
or place my healing
within this very poem itself.

— MyKoul