Shah Latif `s Poetry (Translated In Verse By: Elsa Kazi) Kalyan Yaman-II (Path to peace)

Thou art the friend; the healer thou;For every pain the remedy--Cure for my herat, thy voice alonethe only cure it is for me......The reason why I call for theeis none can cure my heart but thou.
Thou art the friend, the Healer thuofor every ailment balm dost send;Merciful God--all druge are vain;the pains by drugs will never end;Unless ordered by thee O friend,no drug will ever sickness cure.
Thou art the friend, the Healer thou;for sufferings thou the remedy;Thou givest; curtest disease, dost guide,master thou art eternally--Yet, I am wonderstruck to seethat you physicians still provide.
Sttike friend-- thy hand raise,favour me--hold not your hand, and should I die By such death I shall honoured bewhich through this wound is caused.
Today still groans the thatches fill,where wounded lie and suffer;Although it is their twilight, stillsame ointment there and dressing
Poor wounded ones, so restless grow,yet grateful are for pain;For ever forward wish to goand here would not remain.
Mother, I cannot trust in thosewhose eyes with tears do over-flow-Who bring the water to their eyes,their sorrow to the world to show;Who love Beloved, hide their woe,no tears they show, nor speak about-
Physician, blundering and unwise,you cauterise my skin, and treatWith slops my heart-ache, know to whomscaffold a bridal-bed supplies,The one beatific vision liesin death, which is the union sweet.
Physicians you consulted butdieting you ignored...Had you obeyed, perhaps restoredto health you would be now.
Physicians were my neighboursI ne'er asked their advice-Therefore I find that in mine eyescataracts I now have formed.
Ah! suddenly they found themselvesin sphere of love...and thereThey cut their heads, left trunks apartsuch garland they did wear!Beauteous they loved ones fairI saw them give their heads away!
Go to the moth, the surest wayof immolation ask-The moths, who throw themselves intothe fire every day;Whose tender hearts became a preyto cupid's arrow sharp.
The moths assembled, gathering above a raging fire...Heat drove them not, no fear they had,flames did their hearts inpire-Their necks they lost, and on the pyreof truth they burnt themselves.
If you call yourself a moth,from blaze return not terrified;Enter by the loved-one's lightand be ever glorifiedYou are still unbaked...besidenot yet with kiln acquainted are.
If you call yourself a moth,then come, put out the fires sway,Passion has so many bakedbut you roast passion's 'Self' today-Passion's flame with knowledge slay...of this to base folk give no hint.
Happy those who acquaintance makewith goodly grinding wheelTheir rapiers never then shall taketo rust, nor will corrde.
Apprentice of the blacksmith, worksthe bellows not with care;Not close to fire goes, he fearslove sparks that issue there.And yet proclaims he every where;"full-fledged blacksmith am I"!
Turn your head into an anvil,then for smithy do enquire,There the hammer-strokes of firemay turn you into steel.-
When I an arrow do reciveon that spot I remain;Perhaps my Hero-love againwill strike in mercy sweet.
Physician give no medicine.may health I never see...May be, enquiring after memy love to me will come.
Sacrifice your head, and 'suffer'if loved-ones send dismay...Say not, 'Forsaken''t is their waylike this to form their links
Those that cut me up, becamethe kindly surgeon too-The wound they quickly dressed, and curedwithin a day the sameOh heart! and now make this your aim "stay with them, and be safe from wounds"
As long there is no need, so long physician is not here...But when one day pain does appearit is as though the leech had come!
They read and read, but what they readtheir hearts refuse to store-The more they pages turn, the moreare deeply steeped in sin.
O friend, why are you still inclinedto waste paper and ink-Go rather forth and try to findthe source where words were formed.
The world with 'I' doth overflowand with it flaunts about-But its own 'Self' it doth not know...'t is a migician's spell.
They do not heed the glorious line that does begin with 'A'-In vain they look for the Divine,though page on page they turn.
You only read the letter 'A'-all other pages put aside-Book-reading nothing will convey-but your being purify.
Unuttered is unknown...the utteredis never understood....behold,Although it be as true as gold,humanity takes never note.-
By 'giving' they were hurt,-'not giving'to them contentment brought-So they became sufis, as noughtthey did take with themselves.
To hear vile words, and not return,but hear them silently;This is the pearl, most precious pearl,we in guide's teaching see-But decked with jewels he will bewho with 'Silence' the Ego kills.
Those who never forgot the sorrow,and lesson learnt of woe-The slate of thought within both hands;'silence' they study so-They only read page which does showBeloved's lovely face.
Patience, humanity adopt,For anger is disease-Forbearance bringeth joy and 'peace',if you would understand.
The inoffensive don't offendforget who do offend-In this refined and cultured waythy day and night do spendThus meditating, humbly walk,until thy life doth end-A Lawyer keep within, O friend,to blush not, facing judge.
As long as of this daily worldno glimpses you obtain-A perfect view you will notgainof your love Heavenly.
True lovers never will forgettheir love Divine, until one dayTheir final breath will pass awayas tearful sigh.

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