An Edge of Foam

If a physician encounters such madness, he should wash the book of medicine with blood.  
The art of medicine is inscribed with wisdom, yet the faces of all beloveds are its veil.  
Turn towards yourself, O follower of love, for you have nothing but your own self.  
The heart has become the direction of prayer, for man has nothing but what he strives for.  
Before he heard a response, he had been entangled in prayer for years.  
He wove prayers without receiving an answer, yet from grace, he secretly heard "yes."  
When the sick one danced without a drum, it was due to trust in the generosity of the noble Creator.  
There was neither a voice nor a messenger for him, yet his ears were filled with the sound of "yes."  
Without words, his hope said "come," and his heart swept away the invitation of sorrow.  
Do not call the pigeon that has learned the rooftop; do not drive it away, for its wings are sewn.  
O Zia al-Haq Husam al-Din, drive it away, for its soul has been revived by meeting you.  
If you drive away the bird of his soul without reason, it will still circle around your rooftop.  
Its food and treats are all on your rooftop, flying high, intoxicated by your trap.  
If the spirit secretly denies for a moment, in expressing gratitude to you, O victory and triumph,  
The constable of love repeatedly kindles its resentment, placing a fiery basin on its chest.  
"Come towards the moon and pass beyond the dust," the king of love calls you to return quickly.  
Around this rooftop and my dovecote, like a pigeon, I fly drunkenly.  
I am the Gabriel of love, and you are my Sidra; I am the sick one, and you are the Jesus of Mary.  
Make that ocean of jewels surge, and kindly inquire about this patient today.  
Since you have become his, the ocean is his, even though now it is his turn for crisis.