Fakir's Prayer To The Pirs Poem by Sumita Jetley

In Rampur's embrace, where ancient whispers dwell,
Amina walked, her tale of faith to tell.
With each step on the earthen path she trod,
Her heart a compass, guided by the nod
Of Sufi pirs, whose wisdom, like the grain,
Grew deep within the furrows of the plain.

A lamp she carried, oil within it, pure,
Her hopes a silent prayer, her intent sure.
To the mazar she'd go, on Urs' hushed eve,
Where souls of saints in eternal weave,
Slumbered in peace beneath the crescent moon,
Their silent sermons a sacred, timeless tune.

The night was jeweled with a starry crest,
Each light a silent pilgrim on a quest.
Amina's flame, in her palms a tender guest,
Sought its place among the rest.
The mazar stood, a bridge of stone and age,
To heavens unseen, it was the sage.

There, she lit her lamp, its shy flame took the stage,
Among the myriad others, it became the mage.
Its dance was soft, a whisper of her soul,
Not for riches or for some grandiose goal.
But for strength, for patience in her role,
To be a beacon of hope, to make broken spirits whole.

The pirs' silent gaze, from their eternal sleep,
Watched over the lamps, their vigil to keep.
And Amina, with hands like folded wings,
Sent forth her wish, carried on faith's springs.
Not for her, but for all, her humble plea,
To be called, to be heard, by the pirs' decree.

In the glow of lamps, in the sacred night,
Each flame was a prayer, a beacon of light.
And Amina's, though small, with a steady burn,
Embarked on a journey for which many yearn.
To soar, to illuminate, to gently affirm,
That after the night's reign, will come the morning's turn.

So from Rampur's heart, this story I share,
A humble flame's prayer, floating on air.
May the pirs be listening, to you, to me,
In our whispered wishes, may we find the key.
For in Amina's lamp, a lesson so bright:
Even the humblest flame can banish the night.