The things that I liked,
I do not like anymore,
And the things that meant little to me,
Have come to be a way of life.
What’s changing then, in little, little ways?
Neither time is still, nor the events surrounding it.
What was precious yesterday is happily given away.
Small pockets of prized trinkets, dreams,
Memories, people,
Once, crowding away,
Have been cast out like water in a drain.
Now, I like simple things; beautiful in their simplicity,
Not stories, not lies, not even the truth interests me,
For, when I bow near the temple door,
With a light hand touch the marble floor,
Smear its divinity on the forehead and walk in like an ordinary servant,
Love and love alone I know,
Like fire it springs in His eyes,
Like tears it glistens in mine.
I do not like anymore,
And the things that meant little to me,
Have come to be a way of life.
What’s changing then, in little, little ways?
Neither time is still, nor the events surrounding it.
What was precious yesterday is happily given away.
Small pockets of prized trinkets, dreams,
Memories, people,
Once, crowding away,
Have been cast out like water in a drain.
Now, I like simple things; beautiful in their simplicity,
Not stories, not lies, not even the truth interests me,
For, when I bow near the temple door,
With a light hand touch the marble floor,
Smear its divinity on the forehead and walk in like an ordinary servant,
Love and love alone I know,
Like fire it springs in His eyes,
Like tears it glistens in mine.
 |
| The Song of the Sufi Masroof |
2 comments:
a lovely poem...speaking the transition we feel with passage of time :)
Thank you so much, @Crimson Curls!
What a lovely name! :)
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