The Being Of Man-Kind Poem by Imran Basir

Thou writest on the book of sorrow,
Yet thou knowest not what shall come on the morrow,
A bird of flame thou hast become,
Of sadness thou hum.

O Sorrowful-One, put not thy head down too anon,
For the dark is not known, nor yon,
Thine eyes have no light,
Open them, or thou shalt be as dark as the night.

What dost thou hope for?
Things are not known in Power nor in Lore,
Forsake thy path of tears,
Else thy life shall be as walking on spears.

O Honorable One, thou art the wood in the flame,
Thy sap doth sizzle in the burning of that which none dare name,
Of fire and of ash,
Ere thou wert standing tall; though now thou art hurt by the axe that doth slash.

Thou art handled as a slave,
Of all honour thou once gave,
Thou wearest humblest clothes,
Yet in thy heart is sweetness as a red rose.