Hafiz’s Gift

May 8, 2009 at 5:10 pm 1 comment

I’ve been feeling very tired, emotionally drained and unsupported lately. But something that has been bringing me comfort and moments of joy is The Gift, a book of poetry by the Sufi Master Hafiz. I tend to write down inspiring or touching things that I read. The selections below are all handwritten into my journal; all are taken from The Gift, some are full poems and some just fragments:

We Have Not Come to Take Prisoners

We have not come here to take prisoners
But to surrender ever more deeply
To freedom and joy.

We have not come into this exquisite world
To hold ourselves hostage from love.

Run, my dear
From anything
That may not strengthen
Your precious budding wings.

Run like hell my dear,
From anyone likely
To put a sharp knife
Into the sacred, tender vision
Of your beautiful heart.

For we have not come here to take prisoners
Or to confine our wondrous spirits,

But to experience ever and more deeply
Our divine courage, freedom, and LIGHT!

All this time
The sun never says to the earth,

“You owe

What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the

A pair
Of mismatched newlyweds
One of whom still feels very insecure,
I keep turning to God

When all your desires are distilled
You will cast just two votes:

To love more,
And be happy.

I know the ectasy of your heart’s wings
When they make love against the Sky.

Something divine happens to the

Shapes the hand and tongue
And eye into
The world

I cannot sit still with my countrymen in chains.
I cannot act mute
Hearing the world’s loneliness
Crying near the Beloved’s heart.

Love Is the Funeral Pyre

Love is
The funeral pyre
Where I have laid my living body.

All the false notions of myself
That once caused fear, pain,

Have turned to ash
As I neared God.

What has risen
From the tangled web of thought and sinew

Now shines with jubilation
Through the eyes of angels

And screams from the guts of
Infinite existence

Love is the funeral pyre
Where the heart must lay
Its body.

Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a

Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife

Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you.

The Vintage Man

Between a good artist
And a great one


The novice
Will often lay down his tool
Or brush

Then pick up an invisible club
On the mind’s table

And helplessly smash the easels and

Whereas the vintage man
No longer hurts himself or anyone

And keeps on

Indeed God
Has written a thousand promises
All over your heart

That say,
Life, life, life
Is far to sacred to
Ever end.


Entry filed under: emotions, faith, healing, humor, love, reality, spiritual, vision. Tags: , , , .

Long-Distance Healing Frederick, Our Fluffy Familiar

1 Comment Add your own

  • 1. Dropping Keys « Sitting In The South  |  May 21, 2009 at 8:41 pm

    […] 21, 2009 I’m still reading through The Gift, and this poem by Hafiz completely changes the way I’ve been looking at many things I do that […]


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