Beauty Of Truth Poem by Khwaja Ghulam Farid

O’ Beauty of Truth, the Eternal Light!
Do I call you necessity and possibility,

Do I call you the ancient divinity,
The One, creation and the world,

Do I call you free and pure Being,
Or the apparent lord of all,

Do I call you the souls, the egos and the intellects,
The imbued manifest, and the imbued hidden,

The actual reality, the substance,
The word, the attribute and dignity,

Do I call you the variety, and the circumstance,
The demeanor, and the measure,

Do I call you the throne and the firmament,
And the demurring delights of Paradise,

Do I call you mineral and vegetable,
Animal and human,

Do I call you the mosque, the temple, the monastery,
The scriptures, the Quran,

The rosary, the girdle,
Godlessness, and faith,

Do I call you the clouds, the flash, the thunder,
Lightning and the downpour,

Water and earth,
The gust and the inferno,

Do I call you Lakshmi, and Ram and lovely Sita,

Do I call you the Gita, the Granth, and the Ved,
Knowledge and the unknowable,

Do I call you Abraham, Eve and Seth,
Noah and the deluge,

Abraham the friend, and Moses son of Amran,

And Ahmad the glorious, darling of every heart,

Do I call you the witness, the Lord, or Hejaz,
The awakener, existence, or the point,

Do I call you admiration or prognosis,
Nymph, fairy, and the young lad,

The tip and the nip,
And the redness of betel leaves,

The Tabla and Tanpura,
The drum, the notes and the improvisation,

Do I call you beauty and the fragrant flower,
Coyness and that amorous glance,

Do I call you Love and knowledge,
Superstition, belief, and conjecture,

The beauty of power, and conception,
Aptitude and ecstasy,

Do I call you intoxication and the drunk,
Amazement and the amazed,

Submission and the connection,
Compliance and Gnosticism,

Do I call you the Hyacinth, the Lilly, and the Cypress,
And the rebellious Narcissus,

The bereaved Tulip, the Rose garden, and the orchard,

Do I call you the dagger, the lance, and the rifle,
The hail, the bullet, the spear,

The arrows made of white poplar, and the bow,
The arrow-notch, and the arrowhead,

Do I call you colorless, and unparalleled,
Formless in every instant,

Glory and holiness,
Most glorious and most compassionate,

Repent now Farid forever!
For whatever I may say is less,

Do I call you the pure and the humane,
The Truth without trace or name.