Mian Muhammad Bakhsh (1830-1907 / Khari Sharif, Kashmir / Pakistan)
Remembering the beloved again again, they eat, frying pieces of their liver,
Like a fruit drink, from the hands of the beloved, they drink the cups of poison.
During the night they cry continuously, washing off sleep from their eyes,
In the morning, they are called the humble ones, and consider themselves lower then everybody.
This body of send of yours contains gold inside it, which can't be seen except,
When you wash pouring water of your tears, the sand and dirt washes off.
Placing the rope of sorrows around your neck, pull the ‘madhani' with (the rope of) his remembrance,
With courage, O Muhammad Baksh, soul has acquired the butter.
Life… Life is a false pretext, death is standing overhead,
Tens of millions prettier than you have gone to sleep in the ground.
Whoever did not buy love, they came here useless,
Without love, O Muhammad Baksh, what are men? what are dogs?
Without love, faith is incomplete; people say "may your faith preserve",
To live through dying is the characteristics of love, every breath is the doomsday.
If we perform a hundred thousands acts of piety and worship, without love of what use?
As long as love doesn't burn you, friendship cannot be complete.
Who don't have the pain of love, how can they attain the fruit of sight?
If Allah grants the ailment of love, there is no need for any medication.
When your own remembers you, you will wean off all other acquaintances,
Father, mother, friends; all will be forgotten, neither will there be any longing for sisters and brothers.
Everybody knows about the light spot: in front of us is the darkness of grave,
Alone, by itself in the wilderness, which will be the adobe forever.
For knowledge, humans have come to the world,
With knowledge one recognize one's self, otherwise it is an animal.
Without the command it cannot escape if it makes a hundred preparations,
The bird is feeling restricted is the cage, but how can it fly?
If mother is happy, God is happy, the foremost guide is mother,
Thank God you are still happy, and also the honor stands.
He dose not hesitate from spending, He gifts without being asked,
To the ones who asks, O Muhammad Baksh, He honors by bestowing wealth.
The infant which, with affection, we carry on our side,
Even if soils the shirt, we do not strike on the ground.
The hands are trembling terribly, you turned them into a swing,
This swing, O naive one, asks you to let go off others belongings.
World did not accompany anybody from here, everybody wen alone one after another,
Those are better who kept their clothes clear of this dirt.
The aliens walked away barefooted, all mixed into the dirt after they died,
Say why the arrogance, O Muhammad Baksh? stay humble and afraid.
Comments about this poem (Saif-ul-Malook 02 by Mian Muhammad Bakhsh )
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