بخش 9 - تو چه دانی که درین گرد سواری باشد

Learn the ways to win His pleasure and grace, Be truthful to Him and whole human race.

Take me not poet in this or that sense, Look my passions depth from the wisdom’s lens.

If a craze consumes the garden’s face, And saps its beauty and social grace.

I poured a verve and roar, in this town lanes, Will leave a craze yet to sharpen their brains.

The poppy of my dawn’s first vernal tide, Is burning alone from a scar I hide.

So under rate not my verve’s lone part, See caravans budding from my heart.

So scattered I’m like dust of the way, On the wings of storms I cannot stay.

How august and happy would be that day, When a ride is born from my own clay.

How lucky a nation whom wheel of fate, Had caused a wonder through a leader great.

His birth a secret of a secret hand, Who would change her fate in a manner grand.

In self’s own sea, I’m thus a restive’ wave, Till my waves in tempest to Coast would lave.

I found no better cast than my own face, With my own blood his picture I trace.

His glance would fill up the empty bowl, He runs the will’s wine in vine’s veins whole.

His storms and gales are a God gift free, He made a small brook, ‘rival of sea.

The caravans reins he would take when, He gives vision taste to each hidden then.

He makes so much bare the heavenly hosts That all nine skies would be tinder his force.

To that holy mother I greet with pride, From whom will be born the caravan’s guide.

On the lap of, ‘that’ fortunate dame, The paradise nymphs would feel a shame.

My heart thus says that the hero will hail, So gather you stocks as he would assail.

At death bed I heard a voice with zoom, When a flower fades a bud would bloom.