I am no singer rapt in ecstasy,
Nor yet a sighing listener am I,
I am the nightingale that used to sing
In joy, but now am mute, remembering.

I know the drop within the ocean hides,
But know not in what place my soul abides:
I cannot read the hidden mystery--
Whence came I, whither go I, what am I.

My friends have paid due reverence at my grave,
And held my dust as sacred, for I gave
My humble life to the Beloved's sword,
Killed by her beauty, martyred by her word.

I deemed life was tranquillity and rest,
I find it but a never-ending quest;
And I, who sat in quietude and peace,
Toil on a journey that shall never cease.

SHAMSHAD.




XXXIX.


Repent not, for repentance is in vain,