The Shirt of Blame

This shirt of blame that I’m wearing,
I chose it for myself.
The empty bottle of self-importance
has melted down to glass — ahh, what does it matter? –
has melted down to glass.

I was lifted beyond the known world
to a place from which to see.
When I came back to this soil,
the whole world looked at me — ahh, what does it matter? –
the whole world looked at me.

There’s a rain that is falling
on the garden of the soul,
and the bushes that will grow there
yield roses as well as thorns — ahh, what does it matter? –
yield roses as well as thorns.

Some are praying in the churches,
others prostrate in the mosques.
The only prayer that I offer
is at the threshold of my love — ahh, what does it matter? –
at the threshold of my love.

Are you happy with your Beloved?
People often want to know.
If I’m happy or I suffer,
my Beloved is still mine — ahh, what does it matter? –
my Beloved is still mine.

The wine of love has been forbidden
by those who never loved.
But I pour it and I drink it,
this love is all I know — ahh, what does it matter? –
this love is all I know.

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