Classic Poem

The world at this moment of night has turned into a mosque.
The world at this moment of night has turned
a silent sweet mat of prayer.

All the movements have come to a close,
all the dins of horizon have become still.

After the day's toil of tilling sins and virtues like a tractor
the tired locality like a dead body has entered into the stony sleep.
In the province of sleep, only the sleepless stars
bathing in the moonlight of Jikir* blaze to decorate the sky.

The world at this moment of night has turned into a mosque,
has turned into the quite solitude of the grave.

Like a pot made of glass
let the sleep be broken to those
let the sleep be broken to those
let the sleep be broken to those
who are wiling to subdue the moaning of heart
who are wiling to pick up the gold of timeless pardon
in their blissful fists.

*Remembrance of the name of Allah