O Lord, if I worship You because of Fear of Hell,
then burn me in Hell;
If I worship You because I desire Paradise,
then exclude me from Paradise;
But if I worship You for Yourself alone,
then deny me not your Eternal Beauty…
Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya al-Qaysiyya
She lies, hip high,
On a ﬂat bed
While the after
Plant, I breathe ——
Eyes legs arms hands ﬁngers,
Simple legs in silk.
This cozy cotton bower conceals
Zephyr wrapped in sweet perfume;
In a silk and woolen womb,
Zephyr sleeps with laughing heels.
When the Zephyr lifts his wing
In his cotton-down retreat,
When he flies where robins sing,
His soft breath smells so sweet!
O quintessential breeze!
O distillate of love!
Day’s dew as it dries
Perfumes the sky above!
Jesus! Joseph! Jesus! Mary!
This odor, like a condor’s wing,
Cradles the devotionary …
It sweetens us and makes us sing!
I, who rebuked the lazy,
sleep late into the morning.
¡Mi corazón es una mariposa,
niños buenos del prado!,
que presa por la araña gris del tiempo
tiene el polen fatal del desengaño
(My heart’s a butterﬂy,
good children of the ﬁeld,
pinned by time’s grey spider,
ﬁlled with disillusionment’s deadly pollen.)
Federico Garcia Lorca
The gold booty of Gyges means nothing to me.
I don’t envy that Lydian king, nor am I jealous
of what gods can do, nor of the tyrants’ great
powers. All these are realms beyond my vision.
The passion of my heart is sharp
and stealing ever on, brings pain;
burns like a stirred-up fire, smokeless;
wastes like a mortal fever every limb.
My father cannot save me nor my mother
nor even you, my friend.