Sunday, November 27, 2005

Mysteries of Selflessness by Iqbal

"Since love first made the breast an instrumentOf fierce lamenting,
by its flame my heartWas molten to a mirror,
like a roseI pluck my breast apart,
that I may hangThis mirror in your sightGaze you therein."

"I am but as the spark that gleams for a moment,
His burning candle consumed me - the moth;
His wine overwhelmed my goblet,
The master of Rum transmuted my earth to goldAnd set my ashes aflame."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Best regards from NY! » »