On the Fine Arts of Slaves - Painting

Similar is the case of Painting, It shows the stamp neither of Abraham nor of Adhar.

ʺA monk entrapped in the snare of baser passion; A beloved with a bird in a cage;

A king (sitting) before a Khirqah clad dervish; A highlander with a bundle of wood on shoulders;

A beautiful maiden on way to the temple; A hermit sitting in the solitude of his cell,

A puny old man crushed under the burden of old age In whose hands the flame (of life) has gone out;

A musician lost in a strange and alien song, A nightingale bewailed and his string broke;

A youth torn by the arrows of belovedʹs glance; A child on the neck of his aged grandfather.ʺ

From the pen flow nothing but discourses of death, Everywhere there is the story and spell of death.

The modern science prostrates before the evanescent, It increases doubt and removes faith from the heart.

A man without faith has no taste for search of truth; He has no capacity to create.

His heart is ever wavering, It is difficult for him to bring forth new forms.

He is far removed from the self and is sick at heart, He is led by the vulgar taste of the masses.

He begs beauty from external nature, He is a highwayman and tries to rob the destitute.

It is wrong to seek beauty outside oneʹs self; ʺWhat ought to beʺ is not (lying) before us.

When a painter gives himself up to Nature, He depicts Nature but loses thereby his own self.

Not for a moment did he manifest his real own self, Nor did he ever try to break our (idols).

Nature wrapped in multicoloured gown Can be seen on his canvas with a limping foot.

His low burning moth lacks heat; His today is devoid of reflections of tomorrow.

His sight cannot pierce through the skies, Because he does not possess a fearless heart.

He is earth rooted, without experience of ecstasy, shy, Totally devoid of contact with the world of spirit.

His thought is hollow and he has no liking for struggle, His Israfil like, call does not bring about any resurrection.

If man deems himself earthly, The light divine dies in his heart.

When a Moses loses hold of his own self, His hand becomes dark and his staff merely a rope.

Life is nothing without the capacity for new creations, Not everybody knows this secret.

The artist who adds to Nature Reveals before our eyes his inner secret.

Although his ocean does not stand in need of anything, Yet our rivulets do contribute to it.

He transforms the old values of life, His art establishes the true standard of beauty.

His houri is more charming than the houri of paradise, He who does not believe in his Lat and Manat is an infidel.

He creates a new universe And gives a new life to the heart.

He is an ocean and lets his waves strike against himself These waves scatter pearls before us.

With that fullness which characterises his soul, He strives to nourish the impoverished.

His pure nature is the norm of the right and the wrong, His art reflects both the ugly and the beautiful

He is the very essence of Abraham and Adhar, His hands make as well as break idols.

He uproots all old foundations And polishes all creation.