Makhfi

على قَدرِ أَهلِ العَزمِ تَأتي العَزائِمُ

وَتَأتي عَلى قَدرِ الكِرامِ المَكارِمُ

وَتَعظُمُ في عَينِ الصَغيرِ صِغارُها

وَتَصغُرُ في عَينِ العَظيمِ العَظائِمُ

- المتنبي

The great intentions come proportional to the amount of determination of determined people

And the great honors come proportional to the generosity of honorable people

The smallest of things appear huge in the eyes of the little ones

and the greatest of things are diminished in the eyes of greats

- Al Mutanabi

O Thou Who all things mortal and divine
Hast fashioned, and by Whom alone we live,
May there still shine
The torch of hope that Thou to us didst give!

Within us stirs the leaven of Thy love,
As streams of water of Thy mercy run.
Look from above
And bless Mahmoud and all that he hath done.

Whether it be in Mecca's holiest shrine,
Or in the Temple pilgrim feet have trod,
Still Thou art mine,
Wherever God is worshipped is my God.

The morning I shall greet with tears and sighs,
And from my heart that burns with holy fire
A breath shall rise
To burnish thus my mirror of desire.

Give me thy tears, O Makhfi, let them rain
In quenching torrents on my burning heart;
So hot its pain
At every sigh I breathe the flames outstart.

O Prophet, o’er the world
Thy soul-compelling banner is unfurled:
See how thy faith hath spread
Till Iran and Arabia are led.
Thy lips unclose
Like petals of a newly-budded rose,
And from them flow
Thy words of wisdom, till not only know
The sons of men,
But birds within the garden sing again
Thy words of gold.
O thou whose beauty I with joy behold,
Nature in truth
Made never loveliness like to thy youth.
Snared me it hath
Till fain would I renunciation's path
With patience tread,
And follow where thy holy feet have led.
But how can I
My cherished joys to my poor heart deny,
Or, even more,
My cherished sorrows can I yield, for sore
My heart doth bleed
Where cruel love hath wounded it indeed.

Look thou and see
Where from my wounds there drops continually
A crimson flood;
But fragrant flowers are springing from my blood,
And every thorn
Wherewith my weary wandering feet are torn
Turns to a rose.
O Makhfi, if the Kaaba keeper close
To thee his door,
Complain not: thou possessest even more
A holy place;
For look into the Well-Belovèd Face,
Over His Eyes
Arches more fair than Kaaba gates arise;
Thy heart shall bend,
Itself an archway welcoming the Friend.

-Zebunnisa