22.9.2012
You pierce the ageing
heart of mine
Physically damaging
it, is an on-going act of thine;
Whenever you raise
your hand on your Muslim brother,
You shatter my world
of Islamic perfection.
I write on paper, not
machine
Like my predecessors, I
hope to achieve,
A moment from your
precious life
That which you
willingly waste.
I see you, the smiling
ones
The humored soul that
takes me a joke.
Laugh while you may,
at my lament!
Or read on! And laugh again, you are only dust and
smoke.
I have turned from
side to side
Looking for answers,
searching my mind.
I find no Iqbal
penning his thoughts
Nor Rumi spinning in
love.
Wait! Blur not my eye.
You assembling tear.
I am to write words,
and write them again.
While Iqbal may rest
in his grave
Junaid yet burns
within, and burns again.
What must I do? O
silent guide?
Do poems move them or
prose?
Is it the flute Rumi
yearned for?
Or the words of a Qari
reciting the Quran?
You must answer,
Answer me now!
I seek to inspire not
one, nor a thousand
Millions will answer
my call, if I pen it right.
If I be the guide. If I
be the guide!
But how can the
unguided be the guide?
No more mysteries, no
more talks in the dreams
I seek not omens, nor
mysteries from the Quran!
I will not read, I
will not see.
Come whisper
it in my ear
Or silently
take me away.
The heart
weakens day by day.
Why do you people
scoff at me? For this?
Why do you people
support me? For this?
You disgust me my
reader.
For, what you seek, is
but with the silent guide.
So come search with
me!
Come let’s sit
together
Come! Come! We will
not talk!
But think and only
think together.
And what do you know
about the power of thought?
It moves the mountains
and fills the sky!
It rises to the Lord
Himself
Where His angels cry.
So come! And come
again!
Let us make them weep to
oblivion.
Sit among us, my
silent guide
For, you were Iqbal and Rumi’s silent pride.
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