The Scented Garden

50 The Impotence of Thought to perceive Reality. VI THE CURTAIN Thy podex, like a rose, within Thy buttocks, sprays of jessamine, Buds to my kisses ; then the wine Sets this old head of mine aspin, So that I push thee to thy knees— A worship, darling, not a sin. Deep as I plunge, I do not break Within the velvet of thy skin. Do what I will, thy Self is hid From me by envy of the Jinn. So, when I think, I cannot pierce The truth of things ; I cannot win Unto the real ; life’s wheel is kept From turning by its axle-pin.1 But swing thine hips and smile upon The hideous world’s malicious grin ! Then when we end, the task is light : Bid El Qahar once more begin2 ! 1. The very cause of life — desire — is that which hinders its attaining to higher planes. A