Mir TAQI.

XXXI.

Wherever the Beloved looks she stirs
    Trouble and longing sore and eager breath
And deep desire in all her worshippers,
    And some for her have drunk the cup of Death.

O Night of Separation, darkest night
    Of deepest grief, thy cruelty shall cease;
To-morrow I shall greet the dawning light
    Within the city of Eternal Peace.

O threatening Whirlwind rolling on thy way,
    I shall unloose thy knot, if thou but dare
With angry gusts to toss and disarray
    A single curl of the Beloved’s hair.

Sometimes her beauty goads and maddens me,
    I cannot bear her cruel loveliness,
But turn her mirror that she may not see;
    Why should I let her double my distress?

Hearken, O Momin, all thy life is done! 
    In idol-worship at the Temple thou
Hast spent thy days, and thus thy years have run: 
    How canst thou call thyself a Muslim now?

Momin.

XXXII.

I, like a wandering bubble,
    Am blown here and there
Shifting and changing and fashioned
    Of water and air.

Thou turnest thy face, O Beloved,
    I cannot tell why,
Art thou shy of a mirror, Beloved? 
    Thy mirror am I!

When over her face she unloosened
    The dusk of her hair,
What need had the world of the cloud-wreaths,
    They fled in despair.

Mushafi.

XXXIII.

No man hath ever passed
    Into the Country of Eternal Rest
        With every longing stilled. 
Who hath not lingering cast
    Long looks behind, and in his eager breast
        Held many a secret yearning unfulfilled?

Ah, Mushafi, to thee
    Silence and thought in solitude are best,
        For thou hast known
That laurel crowns are idle vanity;
    There is no worldly rank thou covetest,
        And what to thee is Suleiman’s high throne?

Mushafi.

XXXIV.

Where has my childhood gone, where are its placid years? 
For cruel youth hath brought passion and bitter tears.

To the Creator now I from the dust complain—­
Beauty, the thing he made, brings with it only pain.

Long I desired and dreamed, waiting with eager breath,
But ere she came to me, Fate sent the sleep of Death.

To God as servitor I my devotion gave,
Now Love hath taken me, bound me to be his slave.

I, Muztar, die with grief, yearning unsatisfied,
Still hangs the purdah’s fold I cannot draw aside,
Nor lift the needless veil woven of shame and pride.

Muztar.

XXXV.