To The Prophet (6-10)

A hidden grief untold is clear, To lips when brought, a tale we hear,

The ways are like a maze, seeker is weak, The lamp blown out, night amidst, also bleak.

In pits grow poppies from vernal tide, Then the friends pitch tents on desert’s side.

It looks me nice to sit all alone, When fountains flow in a mountain zone.

(7)

A page of Iraqi sometimes I turn, From Jami’s fire so often I burn.

I know not though the Arabs’ tune, I share with joy the teamaster’s tune.

Let the hiker’s grief take a blissful turn, Let wails be blessed with rapturous burn.

O teamaster be ready for longer course, Let separation pangs had sharper force.

(8)

Come O! chum for a tie to weep and cry. A victim of ‘Beauty’ are you and I.

Two words I would say in hearts parlance, By ‘Master’s’ feet let eyes go to trance.

To wise he gave less wealth and affluence, The duffer got lustres of raptures hence.

How lucky they were and lucky that age, When king’s door were open to a saint or page.

The world with four sides I have in arm pit, I have wrapped in this head the heavens’ wit.

Then I had to leave that topmost height, Like dust my wing’s lost that higher flight.

In this valley lies a lasting life new, This dust solves meanings’ with an arcane clue.

The Sages and Moses are side by side, There none would ever look a “Can’t see” slide.

(9)

A Muslim was a king and saint so high, Flows from his bosom a flame of sigh

His heart often weeps why weeps in trance, A glance upon me O Prophet, a glance.

The heart takes heat from thy love pangs’ flame, My tone’s large impact is due to thy name.

I weep, because, in the Indian state, I found not a man with thee intimate.

No morn yet to slaves O Indian night, The sun passes not along this land’s site,

No cosy nook yet for us in the East, So broke like a Muslim there is no beast.

As such I say to a soft hearted soul, A Muslim is honoured on virtues role.

O God, help the man who leads a life hard, Who fell from a summit, God be his ward.

A friend’s hidden life how can I reveal, You know what we talk and what we conceal.

Two hundred years’ tale is enough to weep, Like a butcher’s wood a heart I keep.

The sky still going on a perverse course, The car’avan is far off from its place.

His wild goose chases I cannot endorse, No leader they have to direct this race.

In his pure blood shines not that vigour and heat, In his ruined land grows no poppies sweet.

He emptied his pocket and sheath likewise, In a ruined arch thus his Book still lies.

He made his heart captive of pomp and show, Bereft of love’s pleasures his longings go.

The ‘whistling’ of ‘eagles’ he knew a few, As nature of gnats his latent ears knew.

To him the heart’s door is not open yet, No ego in his palm has born as yet.

His conscience is empty from Great God calls, To ground have fallen his prayer’s four walls.

(10)

His collar is torn, he cares no darn, I know not a life, so bore, forlorn.

To him is destined, a death so dry, Fie a Muslim’s life, sans Allah Hu cry.

Give him his dues, of a captive and meek, A beggar whose honour is since long dead.

The doors of a tavern are closed on weak, The Muslims are dying from thirst on bed.

Refine his morals and life once more, Infuse a world new in his heart’s core.

From violent storms, his clothes are torn, Fear from his lamp, though wavers and worn.

The bride of life, in him is not his own, She comes out then from limbe’s lover line.

Entombed before death like sinner in chain, Torn among the angels of church and fane.

His eyes are void of a glamour and glee, No restive heart in his bosom I see.

God be a friend of the unlucky race, Who vanished from scene being out of His grace.

Though born as Muslim yet knows not the death, From fear of death shivers to his last breath

I didn’t peep though through his bosom’s slit The fear of death has weaken’d his grit.

The kingship as whole is trick and skill, In Rome or Jeddah none safe from his kill.

The sufferings of friends I say not to thee, In hope thy solace would make me happy.

A Muslim’s stuff has a life long stay, His lay out stands on a powerful clay.

O wise critique see him from his view, The ‘Ego’ in him now shakes all through.

Ashamed is Muslim for losing his State, His dead faith is haunting some hermits great.

You know their bequest and forefather’s line, He holds his ‘blanket’ as a kingship sign.

Ask me not of his present day lot, As if, earth and sky have made a plot,

To bird who was reared on fruits of fig, The grains’ search in deserts a problem big.

I have scanned the whole world through his eye, So past and future tips I would untie.

Thus ope more and more life’s secret tips, Give the Arab’s tone on this Ajmi’s lips.

The Muslims have raised no armament wings, His conscience is yet like conscience of kings.

If he gets back his status again, Through his beauty his grandeur would reign.

The assets of Sheikh were the fables old, On guess and thinking his Hadith was mould.

He holds faith yet like a Hindu’s thread, His mosque thus sways in a temple’s stead.

He brought a total change in faithless world, They say, “body is a track for life’s bird”

With ‘faqr thou destined to the Siddiq’s part, May fill a new thrill to this ease loving heart.

From fane gets Harem its grandeur and glare, My ‘idol’ is a ‘pir’ with curly hair.

None ill starred came in my bosom’s frame, Being lit up with light of his hopeful flame.

As long in mosque the poor kept a row, They tore the emperors collars he

That fire when cooled in his heart and soul, They crawled to tombs of saints to roll.

The Moslems are fighting with brothers own, Save seeds of rupture nothing they have sown.

If you take a brick they raise cry and hue, A mosque from which they are fleeing all through.

To others than God we touch our brows, And sing like Guibers in round about rows.

I weep not on else, I weep on me, We are not fit for honours of thee.

In the hands of drinkers the empty glass, My party’s bearer is jobless alas.

I keep an eye on sigh’s inner seat, Whose source are the fumes of that lamp’s heat.

The synagogues bottles are void of wine, Where teachers are the pupils of that line.

The poets group I left with tears, Their fifes and flutes are dead on ears.

The Muslims are foreigns on every land, Are looked on this earth like a useless band.

Though powerless still I twist and twine, I face the godless in every line.

With wings you gave I judge and fly, In heat of songs I burn and cry.

A Muslim from whom shivers the death, I found him not on whole earth’s breadth.

At night before Lord I often cry, Why Moslems are aimed for curse of sky.

A voice came then, “You know not this race, Hold a heart yet know not lovers face.”

I speak not now of the grandeur past. No use to count now what did not last.’

I keep a lamp lit in chest of mine, In two hundred years we sapped its shine.

The guard of Harem is the mason of fane, His faith is dead, eyes set on others lane.

From his winking eyes it can be seen, He is despaired of all godsend means.

From this poor man’s flame, sitting on his way Bid him fiery conscience, the least I say.

Kindle his heart for a-long-lasting light, From man’s hopes his hopes be more bright.

Like gallants I fall and rise again, What a blood I shed sans sword-and cane.

On every ones terrace now leans thy look, For which a constant war I have to brook.