بخش 9 - مسلمان آن فقیر کج کلاهی

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 brokelike 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 skystill 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 palmhas born as yet.

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

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.