I consider what meaning has been revealed to me
within the black eyes of her Asian glance,
within the sweet cadence of her thoughts,
within the depths of her invisible memory
and the powers of her secret silence.
Yes, these are the ayat of the Book of Love, I affirm,
though its dark script is foreign to me in delicate flourish,
though its pages are adorned and scented with the culture of a strange kingdom.
So she has permitted this traveller to read,
and I recognize these ayat as beauty upon beauty.
And I become heart broken when I understand
that within the comfort of her permission are the tears of the daughter.
For the men of this kingdom have become thankless and turned from its meaning,
and the gift of God’s own revelation has been wasted upon their sight.