by Muhammad Shanazar
To exaggerate is not the work of man,
I tell you fact, neither more or less
What incredible feelingly I did behold,
When my ethereal self was returning,
From the journey long, during the flight
Rested a while in front of a mansion,
Entered straight into it and saw,
The secret diligent hands busy at work,
The young servants unaware of indolence,
Preparing the records on the scrolls.
In the very spacious hall was a heap
Of books with crippled pages, brown and old,
As the rains had spoiled them all.
Took then I a few to read the lines,
But the ancient words made them mysterious,
And I could not make out a word single.
Then one who seemed to be the master of house,
Looked with displeasure, I put them down;
And finding no reverence I came out of the door.
Then looked I to the sky and wondering beheld,
A huge sun emitting glaring radiance,
Washing the blue of those cosmic spheres.
Then curiosity raised a question in the mind,
And I prayed to God to resolve the mystery,
“What is the speed of ethereal self?”
While looking up a downward jerk I felt,
The huge radiant sun became a star,
Like a little dot that shines at night,
With remote thin dying gleam of glow.
Another sudden jolt swayed me down again,
Place me beneath on the strange landing,
Wherefrom I found the distant star vanished.
It was an answer to my unabating doubts,
“The distances beams travel in the years,
The fueled souls leap in a span very short.”
Last updated June 26, 2011