|When flowers’ bookshop opened in the garden|
Mullah’s bookish knowledge lost all value.
The spring breeze was exhilarating, poise-breaking,
the old man of Indrab burst into ghazal-singing.
The tulip, of fiery skirt, said:
it doth reveal the secrets of the soul.
Who calls sleep awhile in the grave as eternal death,
sows seeds of destruction in the earth.
Life is not a succession of days and nights,
nor is it intoxication and dreamy sleep;
life is to burn in one’s fire:
happy is the man who grasps this truth.
If thou snatch’st a spark from heart’s fire,
thou canst be a sun under the sky.