Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Sharaf [Honour]
“Sonnet In Honour
of the Feast of Sharaf”
Not that what is in my soul is pure, nor are my eyes
In proper shielded, buttressed against what should not be seen;
No, would it were not so, my thoughts are not so secluded from my dreams;
These, the ears, are not immune from babblings
of my brothers’ bathos on the sly.
My hands at times are placed not so firmly where they should not be
Nor to my taste the glories of my food. All
That modesty and honour require are no more than the call
Of truth intones without duplicity and from the centre of my heart’s alacrity.
These infectious imperfections gain election every day before my face
As in each hour may balance, in all, yet another blasphemy
salutes this world with uniformed joy in grayest
Glory, a plethora of pleasantries and follies strewn
through remaining weighty hours’ providential tally of rainy days.
I am never far from falling short of my own metaphors—similitudes and grace
Mirror whom I am in perfect cynosures, refractions of the stolen lights
of all whom I am not—yet as I continue on
With what remains a Melody, a Meadow of Virtues not yet fully explored
is ever open to my gaze and ever honoured, never fully abdicated;
somehow in the end of days and with my latest last breath,
I am become the lyric of its eternal song.