Kinaar-e-Ravi

The Ravi, lost in song, in evening's silence deep, Ask not the state of heart that I within me keep.

Its cadence, rising, falling, bids me kneel and pray, The world became a sacred precinct on this day.

I stand beside the flowing river's shore, But where I am, I know not anymore.

The evening's hem is stained with wine across the land, The aged sky holds out a cup in his trembling hand.

To nothingness, the day's swift caravan has flown, This is no twilight glow, but flowers of the sun are sown.

Afar they stand, in lonely majesty so deep, The minarets of the Chughtai king's last sleep.

This palace is a tale of time's tyrannical decree, This palace is a book from a lost history.

What is this place? It seems a music without sound, The trees, a silent gathering on holy ground.

Upon the river's breast, a swift boat seems to fly, Its boatman locked in strife with waves that crest so high.

As swift as is a glance, that boat now speeds from me, Beyond the ring of sight, for eyes no more to see.

The vessel of a human life thus sails the sea, Appearing and then lost in all eternity.

It never knows defeat, nor does its journey finish, It vanishes from sight, but it does not perish.