Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi

(1165-1240 / Murcia)

I Laid My Little Daughter To Rest


With my very own hands I laid my little daughter to rest
because she is of my very flesh,
Thus am I constrained to submit to the rule of parting,
so that my hand is now empty and contains nothing.
Bound to this moment we are in,
caught between the yesterday that has gone
and the tomorrow that is yet to come.
This flesh of mine is as pure silver,
while my inner reality is as pure gold.
Like a bow have I grown,
and my true posture is as my rib.
My Lord it is who says that He has created me
in a state of suffering and loss.
How then can I possibly hope for any rest,
dwelling as I do in such a place and state?

Submitted: Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, January 07, 2014

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (I Laid My Little Daughter To Rest by Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Lard, Edward Kofi Louis
  2. The Road to Silence, John F. McCullagh
  3. UH-1 Iroquois, Kyle Schlicher
  4. Owl-Moon Night & The Rickshaw-puller, Pradip Chattopadhyay
  5. Sagacious Senryus, Diane Hine
  6. A miner 49er (golden dreams), Monk E. Biz
  7. SATELLITE MOUTHS, alexander opicho
  8. Praying A Relief, Amitava Sur
  9. Infant Morning, Kyle Schlicher
  10. Broken Homes?, Ellirie Aviles

Poem of the Day

poet Sir Walter Scott

The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather Grigalach!

...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]