The poet, whose state is no better than an uprooted tent, admits his foolish lines are of no worth for the wise ones
What happened to me?
Whom did I turn to?
Why did I stray?
From the path that was true?
I drank from a cup,
That led me astray,
And now I’m lost,
With no words to say.
My faith’s tree
Fell upside down:
I forgot the way
To His town
Without a living soul,
I turned to a rock.
Even worms that crawl,
Shunned my barren heart.
I searched for
The attributes of Adam
For, I could not recall
The nature of my being
I imitated the cry
Of a living man:
Not a drop came,
In my eye
My mind would not
Stay in a place:
Jolting as a ferry
In hurricane’s arms
I tried to cure my pain,
With ways diverse.
I consumed with hope,
Remedies endless.
I pinned my hope on many
But the True Cure
Who but Him
Could heal for sure?
I ran with shame
From the faithful folks:
The stream of my heart
Elsewhere flowed
Even the hypocrite, though sly
Was far more sincere in his try
Than I, with rosary in hand
Failed to move, like shifting sand
Not even in my dreams at night
Could I hear the music’s might
Of the Sage, resting in Lahore
While the devotees danced in mercy’s pour
My cup was empty, shattered, broken
Tears flowed but could not be woken
To quench the thirst within my soul
That fell out of His Grace, not whole
I hurt myself with every sin
As love from my folk did nothing win
Their lips busy with my talk
But I starved for a different walk.
Many envied my joyful face
But beneath, my soul was misplaced
Covered in the dirt of my wretched soul
Hiding the pain, I couldn’t console
But tonight, I lay crying in sujood
His compassion covered me in a flood
I opened my heart, wounds before Him
Begging for a cure, with His Rahm
In secret and in joy did I wail
Such pain, my face turned pale
“Ya Rabb, where else to knock
But on the door of Malikul Mulk?”
This beggar feels like a king
When in your thought, a tear I bring
But You, all love is in vain
But You, all comforts are but pain”
Hey Reader, these lines of mine
Are but a hypocrite’s joy divine
They’re not of any worth, it’s plain
For you to enjoy, or to gain
Look not to me for lessons great
For fools’ talk, wise ones ought not to rate
Leave me alone to vent and rant
The silly story of my uprooted tent
Oct 22 2006. Edit March 2024