To The Prophet (11)

Let me sob and sigh in a lone retreat, How fine the Yasrib lines with no joint seat.

How odd a college looks to pub of thrill, Tell me is this better or that one still.

I fly in the airy lovelier space, My wings are getting wet from clouds I face.

I found in my conscience the Harem’s mould, Since on my conscience that song had a hold.

Of secret I told, they paid no heed, They ate no fruits of vintage they need.

O nation’s chief do a justice to me, As a writer of odes my friends call me.

To stick it to bosom this verse aims not, With gems of meanings I open the knot.

With hope my passion would make it gold, I temper their cuprum with heats manifold.

You bid me for a theme on bliss life long, On a dead ear sound a cheerful song.

Those uncouth put me in a poet’s hat, To write a death date of this man or that.

My face looks saffron from arcane pain, The blood looks oozing from red eyes veins.

The speech chokes throat and forms a knot, I can’t speak though you know my lot.

The meek utter hence of yonder glance, Thus the ruthful dwell on sob’s parlance.

We keep eyes ope and seal the lips, In mystics code speech is a slip.

Those who knew not I preached them ego, For them I e’er caused my fonts to flow.

Bid me burning voice with whose sole flame, All griefs are burnt save thy love’s sole aim.

What I hold in heart is grief and remorse. Save thee I have no access and source.

My grief’s inner tale to whom I can tell, You know in my bosom you only dwell.

A poor, ruthfull flutist who taught love’s tone, Is melting himself in heat of songs own.

You know what he seeks and what he wants, Yet he needs not both the worlds in grant.

I seek not my vigour from morning air, From thy Sun’s boon I seek my growth and care.

My glance goes higher than stars and moon, I write not verses for some one’s boon.

I’am in a sea which has no coast side, This heart is the lover’s path and guide.

For thy sake at Mecca a halt I make, If not my journey was for thy sake.

Drive not from door who are longing for thee, We are getting restive from thy flame’s glee.

So bid what ye wish, for patience ask, not, Two hundred miles from it, the heart has brought.

On idols white my heart is sweet, It melts in Tina’s glamour’s heat.

So alien to self I made of me, I sought of my ‘self’ but did not see.

From Western taverns the wines I take, I buy for my head a great headache.

With the nobles of West I sat for days, For me the worst days of my flameless stays.

I seek from thy door, whatever I seek, Bid a grass leaf to peel a “Mountain’s peak.”

To me logic gave a headache great, But a glance changed all over my fate.

With ‘mullah’ or ‘Sufi’ I do not sit, With this or that, you know I dont fit.

Thus write the word Allah on my heart’s slate, To see ‘Him’ and Self in a lucent state.

The ‘mullah’ never knows the pangs of grief, No tears ever flow in his eyes and belief,

From his School of quacks I took to my heels, The sounds of desert chants his dust can’t feel.

On pulpit his address a venom of bile, In arms, hundred books to cover his wile.

In thy ‘own House’ I talk not in shame, By himself though hid I feel His flame.

The heart of lucent hearts he took or I? Thy message of love did he brought or I?

Two shafts of Deen’s quiver are ‘mullah’ and I, Who took the right aim: did ‘mullah’ or I.

An alien I am within my own race, To whom I should take the ‘Issues’ I face.

Those hidden pricks I fear to disclose, I tell not my griefs to heart, though close.

For any one’s boon this heart owes not, With my own hand I opened each tough knot.

I banked on else once save Allah’s grace, I fell hundred times from self’s high place

My craze still feels the same burning phase, All the old passions are still ablaze.

From impact of old storms which I feel still, The waves of my pearls get a new storm’s thrill.

This dust still feels His living flame, To midnight sighs, the heart still claims.

Cast Thy vision’s light so that I may see, Though old I have courage to bear this glee.

My glance looks not the world’s hollow game, The heart is melting from inner flame.

I am in this world which, lacks any flame, Tell me after all what is the secret game?

I have been born in a flameless age, In me nature kept a fire ablaze.

The life in my neck is like a thread, Say they are tighting this thread in my head.

The ‘rose and poppy’ lack my ‘scent and shade. All yearnings have died in a bosom fade.

In words, the grief hidden cannot contain, If so, what to say, to whom to explain?

So alien I am in West and East, No confidants true I have the least.

To heart I’m telling my sorrowful mood, To cheat my solitude, like child I brood.

I broke the magic of the modern age, I pounced on the grains and broke the trap cage.

The God knows that in the Abram’s wake, How fearless I sat in that fire’s stake.

You have lit up my eyes with an insight, To thee owes hence, the Layla’s light,

Bring a Dawn for me, with Thy Vision’s Scene, My night gets thy light, like moonlight sheen.

When I pressed myself in my own embrace, Then I saw my place with thy light’s grace.

In this fane old with the morning tears mere, A world of love and daze lo I cause here.

The world has charms like paradise true; My tears give a moist to the shoots too.

She lacks to her part that cry and hue, She’s looking for a man for guidance true.

Bid him O lord! a holy man’s lead, Who is proud of his ‘home made wine’s need.

Like Hyder, the Lion whose arms are strong, For both world’s wealth he would never long.

Move around O bearer! the wine cup’s course, From wine give the flute further burning force.

Bid me a heart in the bosom of mine, Who can take tussels with the Kaisers line.

For love the world came from thee the love’s flame, In love the hidden joy thy old wine’s game.

I know only one thing from the Gabe’s tune, That he took his glamour from thy moon’s boon.

To me this burning a boon of thy glow, Thy font’s wine is waving in my vine so.

In shame the Join’s realm to my content bows, With thee as my heart had tete a tete close.

This heart, I tied not with aught in this fane, I lost self’s place in my own eye’s pane.

Now he is looking for my ‘bows’ today, On whom I was ruling just the last day.

Grow that poppy from the dust of mine, Whose blood is dripping from my heart’s line.

This heart be received as a favour great, I have no fine offer than heart in plate.

To my shining race I would love to groan, With new melting thought full of moaning tone.

The etiquette calls for a brief parlance, I groan, making tones and wish a rest hence.

For the sake of truth of my free lance tone, For the sake of my sighs impatient groan.

For them I pray for clouds of vernal rain, Who made a best use of my fruits and grains.

I hold a heart in hand find not a beau, A treasure I have but no robbers Lo;

I pray thee to make in my heart a place, How much lonely I am there is no case.

Like Rumi I raised His call in Harem whole, From whom I learnt secret knowledge of soul.

He passed through the crises of his time, I am going too through crisis and crime.

Raise a garden new from dust of mine, Mix a poppy’s blood to my tears shine.

If I’m not fit for Hyder’s sword and lance, As sharp as his lance give me a glance.

A Muslim is resting from coast to coast, On self he lost hopes, is shy of sea most.

Save this poor soul a pathos who keeps, Who sees hidden wounds when his heart weeps.

Who told him I smell thee ‘under the rose’, To give him good news of a spring tide close.

When I saw not in him thy old flame’s blaze, With a new spark I set his caneswood ablaze.

From thy own main give pearls to my rill, My gems to each door, each land and hill.

That gale did not ope my heart’s shut door, Bid a verve anew and a gale more.

In a gathering see my flute’s tones sweet, And self melting phase in a lone retreat.

I learnt the Faqr’s’ path from fore father’s trait, To care not ever for any king great.

I kept beaming face in this or that case, I raised the old veils from the meaning face.

At such a high pitch to craves I brought, That one breath I had the other had not.

I have shared the poppy’s flame and pain, To conscience of life I woke up again.

I know not whom I taught a zealous tone, As I was alone, and harping alone.

With thy light alone I lit up my glance, I make a peep through the sun and moon hence.

Saying I’m Muslim I shudder with shame, I know the hard task of Lailah’s name.

I need in thy land just a melting sigh, To me this is first and last aim to die.

Ho! the daring sot who said to Gods Grace, I need from Thee only Mustafa’s face.