Love
Until you climb a lofty mountain, you cannot know
Translated from Uzbek · Original text
Until you climb a lofty mountain, you cannot knowThe breadth of this world and its majesty.Until you cross the Sirat bridge, you cannot laugh,Until you see the rose gardens of paradise.Until the arrow of love is plunged into the heart,The taste of life is foreign to mankind.Until one is called a madman in the steppe of love,The human body is a ruin for its spirit.If the lover can bear the fire of separationWithout losing his mind and his wits, it does not count.If the spirit does not yield its will to its parrot,If he does not weep blood through the nights, it is not torment.If, becoming a beggar at his beloved’s doorAnd going there like a dog, he is not insulted and driven off;If, lying in the cradle of pain as in a coffin,He is not washed with the tears that flow from his eyes;If his beloved does not understand his anguish,If she keeps wronging him, paining his soul without end;If he sighs and moans, and she never listens,If she dresses him in reproach, raining down arrows;And if his beloved should suddenly fall into misfortune,And he gives his life that moment to set her free;O people of love, lend an ear, be aware,If this is written for love, it may become a poem, an epic.Indeed, if this is what they call love, it is fitting,That self-sacrificing soul deserves the name of lover.Whoever has set foot in the street of love,May a sorrowful life now be blessed for him.O you who say “I loved” yet cannot bear a speck of pain,You who abandoned your beloved in misfortune!You who could not escape the dungeon called the ego,Love is not the business of children like you!Akrom MALIK
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