Don't grieve; may the sorrows in your heart be few,
May a never-dying candle named hope burn in your heart! Your friend did not give you up, nor ever will, O lover,
Poetry
Poems by Akrom Malik, newest first. Pick one for your mood.
Those who say “I missed you,” those who say “I loved,”
Who now and then grieved for you a little! If their longing were real, if their love were true,
If you attain intercession, don't forget the beloved ones,
Don't forget those who belonged to your heart in your past! If God grants His blessing and destines you for victory,
O world, say the takbir: Allahu akbar!
O man, say the takbir: Allahu akbar! O pen, say the takbir: Allahu akbar!
Greetings to all of you who left us!
Having left us, may your sorrows be over! If we stood as an obstacle to your happiness,
Shall I call time a wise judge?
It gives each the verdict he deserves. Shall I call time a wise teacher?
Saadi of Shiraz, one of the great sages,
Offered a flower of wisdom in his "Gulistan". That wisdom is true, do not object,
Whether you love openly or love in secret,
Whether you burn with jealousy or renounce your love; Whether you come with a confession or rush off in hurt,
At times he does not know where to flee,
A sorrow suddenly gnaws at him from within. His strutting about torments him,
THE WOUNDED BIRD
A bird does not know where To throw itself from the pain.
My God, whenever some grief came upon my head,
If I poured out my troubles before someone; And when sorrow slashed my heart like a dagger,
To err is the way of the servant,
Human nature is prone to error. But among the sinners, without doubt,
Every deed has its condition for coming to be:
For the moon, say, to grow full and shining bright, For the stars to sparkle and to laugh,
GROWING UP
When bitter sorrows take hold of your heart, When the air is never enough for your chest —
If they plunge a dagger in your breast for a word of truth,
There can surely be no greater honor than this. Truth is light, and the owls flee from it,
Patience is hard. For my God
Has made lasting the honor of each deed That is arduous for His servant,
Writing poetry is an ordeal for me, my friend,
I can never speak a word in play and laughter. For a poem my heart has to burn,
He was young. An unripe grape he was back then,
A stranger to both torment and delight. Every day was Navruz, every day was Eid,
We said out loud: let girls be accomplished,
Let them provide for themselves, not be in need. Let them live with no hardship, carefree,
The affairs of the world are ever fleeting,
That is, just like this world itself. If you wish to live in perfect happiness,
It is not the dishonorable army of the enemy —
If anything has besieged us, it is only blessings. And we have built a cage for the heart,
Do not trust your state, O poor wretched man,
Do not lean carelessly upon your rank, So that when a trial suddenly befalls your head
This is a saying left by the gnostics of old:
If the body is the sky, the heart is the sun. At times its radiance is wholly gone,
AN ACCOUNT OF MY STATE
I remember — once I used to write poems, It was searching for words and setting them side by side.