Death dies herself and does not damage
Those who advance ahead underailed,
Following the prints of the wise pioneers
Whom He imparts the secrets of wisdom.
At downward dive heart beats thumpingly,
And aches as one feels on an oscillating swing
With long ropes when moves to and fro
Between two extremes with hissing moves,
Fearing lest one should crash to fragments.
I landed upon the world underworld,
Before the sunrise, in the moment of morn,
And roved about the too simple mosque
With open lawn and low boundary walls.
Entering through the gateless entrance,
I sat on the ground, gazed at the outer setting.
A slight afar flowed and winding river,
The lush green bushes stooped along,
The banks and brims of the serpentine track.
One by one then entered natives of the land,
Taking seats they sat in the rows straight
On the unwrapped mats made of palm leaves,
They all gathered for the prayers of morn,
And sat I in the end as my merit allowed.
Then one prominent, in the dress simple,
With a piece of white cloth wrapped around
His head, neither tall nor short,
With round sanguine face and grizzled beard
Of moderate length,
Abased in front of all to lead the prayers.
Recitation of verses imbued the heart,
With serene pure pleasure.
Then hands were raised for more blessings,
Before the crowed dispersed, a man squatted left,
Told me the name and place the Imam belonged to,
“Departed He centuries ago yet is known well,
A winding river flows beside His shrine,
Though often it surges to the brims spilling,
Yet causes no rumpus, passes in serene hush.”
A desire then emerged to esteem the adorable,
By kissing the feet of reverend dervish,
But declined He the act of caressing the feet.