vus'at-e-sa'i-e-karam dekh ke sar-ta-sar-e-khaak

See grace's labor, that stretches out so far, The pearl-shedding cloud walks blister-footed still.

The desert's page, a single fire-scorched scar, In every footprint, burns the fever of its passage still.

The madman on the mountain, a warning mark afar, In the heart of stone, his lament is a seeker still.

My house, accustomed to the sight of ruin's war, Aims a spyglass through the fissure in the wall still.

The narcissus, from the world's display kept far, By a thorn's own lash, unbroken in the dewdrop's eye still.

Why, Lord, does the road itself take the blister's part? The path is but the twisting of a fated scroll, unrolled still.

Asad, I am the garden's quiet, a longing set apart, My eyelash combs the tangled forelocks of my speech still.