GHAZAL OF MIRA

The world passes, nothing lasts, and the creation of men
Is buried alive under the vault of Time.

Autumn comes pillaging gardens;
The bulbuls laugh to see the flowers falling.

Wars start up wherever your eye glances,
And the young men moan marching on to the batteries.

_Mira_ is the unkempt old man you see on the road;
He has taken his death-wound in battle.


_From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._



BALLADE OF AJAM THE WASHERMAN

Come to me to-day wearing your green collar,
Make your two orange sleeves float in the air, and come to me.
Touch your hair with essence and colour your clothes yellow;
The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart;
Come to me.