To the Punjab Pirs

I stood by the Reformerʹs tomb: that dust Whence here below an orient splendour breaks,

Dust before whose least speck stars hang their heads, Dust shrouding that high knower of things unknown

Who to Jehangir would not bend his neck, Whose ardent breath fans every free heartʹs ardour,

Whom Allah sent in season to keep watch In India on the treasure-house of Islam.

I craved the saintsʹ gift, other‐worldliness For my eyes saw, yet dimly.

Answer came: “Closed is the long roll of the saints; this Land Of the Five Rivers stinks in good menʹs nostrils.

Godʹs people have no portion in that country Where lordly tassel sprouts from monkish cap;

That cap bred passionate faith, this tassel breeds Passion for playing pander to Government.”