What is the wind? -a flow in many forms,
What the bards have call'd thee
All are their melodious evergreen songs,
As a philocalist I see the wind in me.
Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty,
Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature
For tidings of the colourful world slightly,
And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.
Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly
Of innumerable flowers' fragrances,
Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry,
And to the peasants love of animals' disturbances.
Wind, a bondage of love and peace
Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures,
And for a painter, wind is a moving picture
Of far-fatch'd fields, blue skies and solitary seas.
Wind, a wander'r rolling up the fallen leaves
With her into the spelly paths making sound,
A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen'd
In a loud silence all around.
Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter,
Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence,
They find haven in heaven of the lady defender,
The wind is wind, an extreme instance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem