The Poetic Notebook of Mullazade Zaigham of Laulab

(15)

The ways of the West are calculating, the ways of the East are monkish; there the times change from moment to moment, here the times see no change whatsoever.

Khidr, on the bank of the river, spoke to me thus in confidence: all are the ways of sorcery, be the actor a king of dervish.

These people of the monasteries look upon me as their rival; they fear lest my beautiful songs rent asunder the saint’s threshold stone.

This is the manifest symbol of the knowledge of the slave people: What if the earth has limits! the whole expanse of Space is boundless.

I can’t see what it is: is it self-deception of deception of God? Having invented the excuse of fate, the Muslim has ceased to act meaningfully.

The rose twig made the hunter weep on seeing me caught in the net: a charming sweet singer was he, his nest rested harmlessly on my branches.

(16)

O land of charming and sweet flowers what need is there to explain: the burning red tulip, grief-stricken and sad, best reflects our bloody heart.

The gods of Himalayas speak thus to thee, to me and to all: Fate is a name we give to the retribution of what we do and act.

In the bitter winds of winter, the poor labourer works in a naked body, though his skill provides shawls to the rich.

The world shall never be loyal to thee: it is and has been ever in flux.

(17)

Self‐awareness has made the mujahid forget his body, to whom bearing of coat-of-mail is forbidden

(18)

Nourish that lofty will and burning heart, get back your father’s arms if thou wish’st to have his sword.

(19)

I am quiet a stranger to the town, listen to my bewailings; may thy breast entertain many a resurrection!

The grief-laden songs of mine are valuable: the unsatisfied heart is a wealth most uncommon.

I fear the world does not appreciate my labour, it isn’t like Farhad’s:

The axe’s noise falling on the stone is something else, Beware, it is voice of axe falling on the heart