(After Friedrich Rückert)

God, guide the weary poor back home
Oh lead our erring thoughts back home

Soul, guest of my rotting flesh, have patience
In time you’ll be free to soar back home

Wield a quick yielding touch my ship
And over the waves be borne back home

From the earth’s dark womb all the shoots shall twine
Upwards to the light longed for back home

Spring flowers spray their spores through the air
Then fall in fall like their spores back home

Hafiz your soul is yearning skywards
While your earthly bones yearn to turn back home