Saffron

from Walled Gardens

Was once a man could tell the difference,
could see into the souls of fools: once was
the kind of man who measured ignorance
with ridicule, who magnified the flaws
of every mote in his periphery
with arrogance: but let the evidence
speak for itself, just as it always does:

“Saffron, my friend, what have you heard of it?
I said Saffron, fool, what have you seen of it?
You know its name, you taste it every day,
     but say just a word of it
     and you give yourself away.”


    Was once a man of quiet innocense
    and simple faith in everything that was
    in front of him, whose life experience
    confirmed what he believed, who had no cause
    to quarrel with the things he could not see,
    no arguments with those whose arguments
    defined what they denied, who simply was.
    “Saffron, you ask, what have I heard of it
    beyond its name, what do I know of it?
    I have it by me, of this I can be sure,
    and it is good. I’ve tasted it
    a hundred times and more.”

    Was once a man who found the resonance
    of saffron in his day to day: once was
    a willing member of the audience
    who loved life with an unreserved applause
    but otherwise had nothing more to say,
    no arguments for those whose arguments
    speak for the sake of speaking for their cause.


No more spite, deceit, envy, slander, hypocrisy,
I long for the pure, spiritual milk, to taste and see...


“Saffron, my friend, what have you heard of it?”
    “Saffron, you ask, what have I heard of it?”

“I said Saffron, fool, what do you know of it?”
    “Beyond its name, what do I know of it?”

“You know its name,...”
    “I have it by me,...”

“...you taste it every day,...”
    “...of this I can be sure,...”

“...but say just a word of it...”
    “...and it is good. I’ve tasted it...”

“...and you give yourself away.”
    “...a hundred times and more.”