Saif-ul-Malook | Mian Muhammad Baksh -1/8
November 7, 2009 by qausain
Selected poetry from Hazrat Mian Muhammad Baksh Saheb’s “Saif-ul-Malook”. English translation by Khamosh Tamashai.
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(Part 1 of 8 )
Firstly all praise to Allah, who is the owner of everything,
Whoever remembers His name is never a loser in any field.
Pour the rain of mercy, O Allah! turn the shriveled garden green,
Make the plant my hopes and longings full of fruit.
In this wonderful garden He planted the plant of Adam,
With the fruits of His recognition, adorned it with wonderful fruits.
Free of any dwelling Himself, no dwelling is free of Him,
All the time, all the things, Muhammad, He keeps in good order.
Whoever provisions He has decided for anybody, that written He never cancels,
Even seeing tens of millions of faults, He nourishes as before.
What a kind guardian (PBUH) of the Muslim Umma, he loves and intercedes,
The likes of Gabriel are in whose service, the leader of the Prophets.
He (PBUH) is the beloved of Allah, a helper on the day of judgment,
Himself an orphan, he consoles and protects the orphans.
I, a sinner, ashamed, a liar, filled with sins,
Have only a single hope, that from your doorstep; have no other protection.
I am blind, and the path is slippery, how can I be keep myself steady?
There are many to push, only you to hold my hand.
Listen to my urging, O guide of guides, please dont push me,
You are a guardian of the weak, God has given you honor.
Who don’t carry any money with them, they return empty handed from bazar,
All is in destiny, O Muhammad Bakhsh, what can be the remedy without fate?
Repeatedly taking the blows of defeats, don’t lose heart, one day tide will turn,
When a hungry man turns to begging, Muhammad, Ultimately he fills the bowl.
The talk of the sad ones, Muhammad, bears witness to their condition,
Whoever has wrapped flowers, his handkerchief emits fragrance.
In the world my life is indeed useless,
My heart had sought you; you did not remain friend.
I have taken what I had to, from what was written in my fate,
With the ones who don’t care, Muhammad, what power do we poor have?
I have spent my life in love, let me see one more time,
These eyes have seen you, may they be useless to see anything else.
Enough I am powerless to do anything; what else can I say about losing you?
What power does a weak have, Muhammad? either running away or crying.
In the house of beloved, aloofness helps the needy,
On whosoever He places his sight, he wins the game.