(A dream I dreamt when I was only four years old)
Hardly was I old years four,
Went through an experience unforgettable.
It was the month of monsoon winds,
In the clear sunny morn I went out of the village,
And beheld the sun rising in the west,
Beyond the yonder peaks of the hills,
In the same place where it descends.
Fear gripped my mind and I ran to the mosque,
Lest the Door of Penitence should be closed.
I ran and ran through the streets shouting,
“O! People come! Come to the mosques!
The Doom is encroaching, beg apology of the sins,
Lest the Door of Deliverance be shut.”
No sooner did I find myself in front of the door
Than I found the mosque running,
With moderate speed, as the train leaves the station.
I ran and ran with the petty steps
Beside the walls, with increasing rapidity,
But ever the door remained out of the reach,
Then the mosques went afar; I began to gasp behind,
On the hot ground with bare feet.