LOG ENTRY #28 – For, You were Iqbal and Rumi’s silent pride


I am not sure whether this is a poem or an ode or … something. I’m not to smart when it comes to all the technical stuff.

What I do know – is that I loved this.

It’s written by Junaid Ali, who is my friend’s cousin and I thought I’d share it with you all today. 🙂

——————————————-

You pierce the ageing heart of mine

Physically damaging it, is an on-going act of thine;

Whenever you raise your hand on your Muslim brother,

You shatter my world of Islamic perfection.

I write on paper, not machine

Like my predecessors, I hope to achieve,

A moment from your precious life

That which you willingly waste.

I see you, the smiling ones

The humored soul that takes me a joke.

Laugh while you may, at my lament!

Or read  on! And laugh again, you are only dust and smoke.

I have turned from side to side

Looking for answers, searching my mind.

I find no Iqbal penning his thoughts

Nor Rumi spinning in love.

Wait! Blur not my eye. You assembling tear.

I am to write words, and write them again.

While Iqbal may rest in his grave

Junaid yet burns within, and burns again.

What must I do? O silent guide?

Do poems move them or prose?

Is it the flute Rumi yearned for?

Or the words of a Qari reciting the Quran?

You must answer, Answer me now!

I seek to inspire not one, nor a thousand

Millions will answer my call, if I pen it right.

If I be the guide. If I be the guide!

But how can the unguided be the guide?

No more mysteries, no more talks in the dreams

I seek not omens, nor mysteries from the Quran!

I will not read, I will not see.

Come whisper it in my ear

Or silently take me away.

The heart weakens day by day.

Why do you people scoff at me? For this?

Why do you people support me? For this?

You disgust me my reader.

For, what you seek, is but with the silent guide.

So come search with me!

Come let’s sit together

Come! Come! We will not talk!

But think and only think together.

And what do you know about the power of thought?

It moves the mountains and fills the sky!

It rises to the Lord Himself

Where His angels cry.

So come! And come again!

Let us make them weep to oblivion.

Sit among us, my silent guide

For, you were Iqbal and Rumi’s silent pride.

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