A Gushing Fountain
and Not an Oasis in
the Cholistan Desert
His face when in repose is serious
Or well-nigh melancholy, almost sad
Like some Islamic saint, mysterious
In beauty. I would make him smile, be glad
That Allah made him slim and manly like
A prophet in a desert made of grief
Who grasps his need to leave his tent and strike
Out into modern joys. His real belief
Is faith in love, the love that men can give.
He wants his lips to open wide, to grin
In happiness and thrills. He wants to live.
He wants to live and know that there’s no sin.
He wants: the righteousness of love without
Sad lips; no . . . holinesses that can spout.