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(9 November 1877 - 21 April 1938 / Sialkot / British India)

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A Prayer

My invocations are sincere and true,
They form my ablutions and prayers due.

One glance of guide such joy and warmth can
grant,
On marge of stream can bloom the tulip plant.

One has no comrade on Love's journey long
Save fervent zeal, and passion great and
strong.

O God, at gates of rich I do not bow,
You are my dwelling place and nesting
bough.

Your Love in my breast burns like Doomsday
morn,
The cry, He is God, on my lips is born.

Your Love, makes me God, fret with pain and
pine,
You are the only quest and aim of mine.

Without You town appears devoid of life,
When present, same town appears astir with
strife.

For wine of gnosis I request and ask,
To get some dregs I break the cup and glass.

The mystics' gourds and commons' pitchers
wait
For liquor of your Grace and Bounty great.

Against Your godhead I have a genuine
plaint,
For You the Spaceless, while for me restraint.

Both verse and wisdom indicate the way
Which longing face to face can not convey.

[Translated by Syed Akbar Ali Shah]

*
The mystic's soul is like the morning breeze:
It freshens and renews life's inner meaning;
An illumined soul can be a shepherd's, who
Could hear the Voice of God at God's
command.

[Translated by Naim Siddiqui]

Not: This poem has been written in the Mosque of Cordoba.

Submitted: Friday, March 16, 2012
Edited: Friday, March 16, 2012


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