A Lover may not be a saint with pious-paint. Yet he pleads with the Lord to let untie their love-lunacy for His Beloved— writes Mujeeb Jaihoon
In the early morning hours,
Love into my heart pierced.
I pressed my heart hard,
Dewdrops soaked my love-beard.
Rose is possessed,
By the Nightingale.
Of what use is,
The silly spade’s feel?
Bystanders are of no merit,
As wine belongs to the cup.
‘When did I even,
Have the right,
To claim the love,
Of Your Beloved’s?
You are His Lover,
He, Your beloved.
Neither a word before,
Nor later, can any afford.
Do the dust have any worth,
To claim the Sun’s sky-heart?
Even as millions proclaim,
To be his lovers;
They realize not the folly,
Of their words.
Here O Lord!
Hear O Lord!
Bear with
My insane-hoard.
I am no saint,
Of any sage-kind,
Poor and pale,
With no pious-paint.
I have earned,
No years of worship.
My wages are nil,
But service of lip.
Here O Lord.
Hear O Lord!
For the sake of whom,
Is said my word.
I begin
My month and year
In the name
Of Your Meem Dear.
Embrace me,
Curse not.
Grant me,
Withhold not.
With these words,
Of a wild goose,
My Love-lunacy for him,
I let loose.
Dec 01 2014. Edit July 2024
