As I Mourn & Whisper

Under a shadowy tree I rest and wonder.
Is god a paragon of grace and loveliness
Or of a fallacy? For a driftwood man as I
Bleed so meanly on His dust and shallowness.

Wilt these men ever awake who art the rapt
Eternally in dungeon with all sweetest reveries?
And men of no good fate shalt go on wailing
With endless doom and trepidation of slaveries?

How tamed and weary my soul can be
With all men art of shadow and perfidy.

Dost shadow ever remains in darkness?
For all my times of grieves and solitude
Those fugitives “Shadows” leave and flee.

Ah! Life, so confined and entangled with
Amorous joy and artful deceits of derision
Of those; who pay in turn scornful disdain
With no forfeiting for their transgression.

The most twilight being art we of no clarity
For even truth oft be demised by deviousness,
Thus under the shadowy tree I have no place,
Where my soul can slumber for convalescence.

What sinful deeds on earth of men have grown,
Not mine, yet I to pay if ever thou have known.
So I alone write words of my writ woe and mourn
Which God had versified ere long on His stone.

So here's the word of my solace and mourn.
What is there to lose when nothing I have?
And while certain is death for whom once born.
Should I cry on my writ fate that I have?

by Mirza Beg

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