The poet yearns for his name to be spoken to the Prophet, the gateway to everlasting peace.
Hey, the Mighty Lord
Of Man and jinn,
True it is:
We sin day and night.
Our worldly greed
Knows no measure,
We feed our bellies
With much pleasure.
Yet we dream
Of matters high and great,
Beggars who knock
At the King’s gate.
Here I present to You,
A desire.
Foolish I am, though.
Dare to aspire.
Let my name be heard
Before the Beloved,
When my greeting,
Swiftly delivered,
Jaihoon’s is not a name
Of any saintly merit.
But when heard there,
Shall such merit inherit.
The Beloved:
The “Bag of Honey.”
Drops are the sages
Who from it fell.
May the Beloved
While on earth know:
My name, son
Of so and so.
So that on the Last Day,
He will near the Lake recall,
When thirsty for a single drop,
I shall helplessly crawl.
O Allah!
Sound my name in Meem’s ears:
In his heart if I reside,
I may surely ride
The Paradise-tide.
Jan 06 2005. Edit July 2024.
