Nawa-e-Gham

The Melody of Sorrow

My life is like a silent, waiting lute, Whose bosom holds all songs, though they are mute.

The cosmos' harp reveres its silent state, While tombs of song on every string await.

Its silence guards song's resurrection-plain, A silence that from tumult will abstain.

Alas! The hope of love was never known, No plectrum's strike upon its strings was thrown.

But sometimes from the groves of Sinai's hill, A celestial sigh from heaven's height does spill,

And gently plucks the single string of life, To free the soul imprisoned by its strife.

A faint sound of a hopeless song does rise, The marching-bell for caravans of cries.

As dew is raised by its desire for flight, My nature finds in sorrow's song its height.