XVIII: Upon them, that journey on the road of…

Upon them, that journey on the road of love,
New assaults, incessantly, are made.

How can there be any peace in those hearts,
That have beheld the splendour of the beloved?

Though, at first, she showed her face in its splendour,
A part of her mantle is now drawn o'er it again.

She hath made each of those eyelashes an arrow;
And her eyebrows are the ambush with bended bow.

The pilgrims, she hath ripened by separation's heat;
And now her preparations are for the reaping of them.

Care and anxiety are the motives of existence;
But what is life unto them, that before death die?

Since from sweet existence, they have, their hearts withdrawn,
The world is a barleycorn in the sight of their resolve.

The truly beloved is, by no means, distant from thee:
Thine own insensate scepticism is the abyss in thy front.

To that godly one, who entered the transient abode,
The whole universe is God, and he followeth Him.

It behoveth to acquire love from both the eyes,
That, apparently separate from each other, are but one sight.

Since thou wanderest not far from thy abode,
Surely thy heart, O Mirza! is pledged unto thy beloved.