The poet’s soul aches for the love of God and the Prophet’s guidance, a stark contrast to the body’s pursuit of fleeting pleasures
One night,
As I sat for rest,
And settled
Was life’s dust,
As I stretched
To relax,
The soul asked,
In tax:
“You made me hear
The noise in the market,
The glitter
Of gold and silver,
The fabric
Of every luxury wear.
I have learned
The joy of love,
Diving deep
Into the beloved’s eye.
With Arts and music
I am familiar,
Poetry and technology
Are to me clear.
But everything fades
In your world of clay.
Show me something
That would ever stay.”
I wondered much
For a hint,
With much shame:
My head bent.
And then I pointed
At the Domed-fort,
Wherein the Lord’s Beloved
Chose his resort.
“Look! This is the blessed city-
Of lights,
Where beggars have risen-
To kings’ heights.
This noble city
Much endears,
The spiritual capital
Of the universe.”
The soul replied
In accord,
No other choice
It could afford.
“Aye! This is the end
Of my search,
Closer to me
Than your reach.”
January 29, 2005. Edit July 2024