بخش 10 - عروس زندگی در خلوتش غیر

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 guessand 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 ‘faqrthou 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 Guibersin 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.