To The Prophet

More delicate than Allah’s Throne Beneath the skies here is A place of reverence where come Junaid and Ba Yazid (and like) Holding their breath out of respect.

(1)

O, tent chamberlain! leave the tent hark The guide has gone beyond the base park.

To drive the litters now flops the-wan-brain, I let the heart hence to take up the reins.

I keep my eyes penchant on hearts essence, Though writhing I am resting on heart’s fence.

From cities and bergs I liked to flee, To the deserts breeze I look up with glee.

I know not who dazzled and killed this heart, No rest since then is destined to this part.

I took him to desert which pained him more. On a brook side too he be wept to the core.

Ask not of lustre drunk’s caravan scene, They have left the world whole and all its means.

By God my feelings rouse from peals of bell, As if the wind booms through canes wood deli.

I cherish for Yathrib though I am old, I am moved to singing in love’s sweet hold.

As the birds at dusk would fly back to nest, I cherish to fly for the desert’s quest.

(2)

To love’an rapture sins gave a common sense, And made ripes wisdom a raws logic hence.

I sing songs hey! to Makkan tunes gay, Since wine in cup was poured on the first day.

You ask the spots where I played my jazz there, My friends know little I came up from where.

I opened my baggage in desert’s heat, Where I am singing in his lone retreat.

(3)

That dawn I asked naqah not to run quick, Its rider is feeble, too old and sick.

In a dancing prance move but she runs more, That sand to her feet is a silky floor.

She needs no reins O I teamster hence! Like my own wits she has the same sense.

From its wavelike trot a plea I would form, Like me she is captive of heart’s own charm.

Yet tears moist vivid in jet black eyes, My heart thus burns from his morning sighs.

That burnt my conscience was the sole wine, Flowing with his gaze like wavelets fine.

(4)

How lucky are deserts caravan lines, They bless the Prophet driving litters fine.

Cast thy kowtows on hot sand grains, Burn thy forehead to form a stain.

Hail the desert whose eve is morning gay, Whose nights are shorter and longer the day.

Place thy steps with a gentle gait, That sands like me has a ruthful trait.

(5)

Who’s that Ajmi as head of caravan His tone varies from tune of desert’s man.

His tone up a charming, lilting song, That a cold heart feels more young and strong.

A place in love and raptures was his aim, Such fires were lit up in his muddy frame.

His cries chime in with every one’s heart, That every one shares his heart’s good part.