Philosophical

A worldly soul loves only worldly ties,And truth-seers, they only despise.

My ears have burst from listening to lore,Yet, Akha, no Brahman-knowledge came to my core.

Don't ask who took revenge, and when, in life? Whenever the time was right, everyone took revenge.

In life, they would dismiss me from the gathering, Let me see now that I've died, who lifts me up?

Ghalib, how can I praise the character of people today?He did me wrong, to whom I had done good in many a way.

O heart, gently know, all things take time to bloom. Though the gardener waters a hundred pots, the fruit comes with the season's room.

I have left the school and the khanqah, filled with sorrow; no life, no love, no gnosis, nor the glance.

Perhaps this universe is not yet complete, For the mighty call, 'Be!'-Kun-Fa-Yakuun, is coming.

Oh God, this world of passing is beautiful, but Why are the men of pure heart, the skilled, and the talented, so miserable?

In every wave, a hundred-mouthed crocodile's snare, Let's see what passes on the drop, till it becomes a pearl so rare.

From poverty's crushing pain, upon my head now cast That single handful of dust, which men a desert call.

O Lord, do not show us, even in dreams, This tumult of thoughts that they call 'the world'.

What moment of union can the rose afford the nightingale?The wound of parting is what we call an ill-placed, mocking laugh.

We are late on the path of dissolution, waiting for a moment of dawn, oh my dear.

In the world of water, dust, and time, are you the secret hidden from sight, or am I? / Are you the world that exists where the eye cannot see, or am I?

They call life the night of pain, burning, and sorrow, but you are its dawn, and I am its call to prayer.

O dust-cup, and I, who am aimless, O dust-cup and self-observer, Are you the flowing water, or am I, for the sake of existence?

Alas, that destiny fed to teeth's maw, by fate's decree,Those fingers, worthy of a pearl string's purity.

If in my heart no blood remains, then what can be so strange?Each finger writhes, a fish beyond its watery range.

If this chaos, the chaos of passion, comes from an empty, boundless place, who is to blame, O Lord? Is this boundless place yours or mine?

Akha, the blind one looted the market; such is the Saint-Guru's insight.

For the wise, the feeling is alike, In the Guru's mind, no aversion can strike.

Why have you become a guru, what practice do you claim?The affliction of mastership has clung to your name.

Fifty-three years passed applying the sacred mark,And the rosary's beads, their holes wore away,

Each movement, each state, depends here, upon a sign, By their signal alone I walked, by their signal alone I stand.

This ocean's boundless grace, and the joy of drinking its air to the full,I keep on walking, yet it feels as though I stand upon the shore.

I've seen many, 'Ghayal', hurled from this very peak, For but a moment, I've simply come to stand upon this minaret.

Something causes the ocean to rise and fall;To me, the ocean appears as sad as we are.

To settle down and find its home, that seems to be its destined place,For in the eyes of everyone, the ocean shows its face!

Whenever you look, 'Ghayal' is surging just like this,What of the day? Even for a moment at night, the ocean cannot be silenced!