The Wind: An Extreme Instance
What is the wind? -a flow in many forms,
What the bards have call'd thee
All are their melodious evergreen songs,
As a philocalist I see the wind in me.
Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty,
Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature
For tidings of the colourful world slightly,
And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.
Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly
Of innumerable flowers' fragrances,
Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry,
And to the peasants love of animals' disturbances.
Wind, a bondage of love and peace
Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures,
And for a painter, wind is a moving picture
Of far-fatch'd fields, blue skies and solitary seas.
Wind, a wander'r rolling up the fallen leaves
With her into the spelly paths making sound,
A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen'd
In a loud silence all around.
Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter,
Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence,
They find haven in heaven of the lady defender,
The wind is wind, an extreme instance.
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